


Wildlings

by Rooscha



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Dark, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rooscha/pseuds/Rooscha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus Prime rules Cyberton as an absolute, violent monarch. He takes care of those under his rule, so long as they properly submit to his authority. The Wildlings, mechanoids who chose to live on the fringes of society, will no longer be tolerated. The Wildlings must submit to his ultimate authority and meld into the society he so carefully cultivates. Multiple pairings. Multiple partners. Dark, Violent, BDSM, Shattered Glass-esque, hard AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Throne Room Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Dark, Violent, BDSM, Shattered Glass-esque, hard AU.

“Sir, the wildlings are getting out of control again. One of the energon stores on the edge of the Praxian wilderness was raided again.” Prowl stated quietly, kneeling in front of his Prime in the throne room. His door wings were pulled close to his body, subconsciously letting his superior know his mood. The other mechs in the room were much the same.

“And why were they not detected long before they reached the edge of the Praxian Wilderness?” The Prime’s tones were heavily veiled with threat. He was the end all and be all for his people and he was not one to suffer fools or incompetents under his reign. 

Prowl mulled the words in his processor for almost a full breem before answering. His Prime was patient in few things, but allowing his underlings time to think before speaking was one. Prowl had a sneaking suspicion that it saved Prime from having to dole out more punishment than he already did. A mech only has so much energy, even the holder of the Matrix.

“The majority of my forces are currently stationed in Kaon, my Lord Prime. The mines there are undergoing many structural challenges, both internally and externally. General Smokescreen had requested more units to ensure that the transition goes as smoothly as possible.” Prowl’s doorwings shrunk even closer to his body. His Prime may choose to take out his displeasure in a multitude of ways. None of which would be pleasant.

Prowl’s optics were focused steadfastly on the gleaming black floor of the throne room, not daring to look up at his commander. A flash light against plating was all the warning he received before he was wrested off his pedes and slammed back against the dark floor. Tiles scraped against his pinned doorwings, the glass scraping against the rough surface. A low whine escaped his vocals before he was able to call it back. 

Cold blue optics bore into his own, forcing Prowl to yet again drop his gaze and stare at his Prime’s midsection. Prime had dropped him to his back, long powerful legs straddling his frame with ease. The Prime had several feet and many hundreds of pounds on the smaller General, making his physical domination easy. The mental domination came almost as easy, the smaller mech knowing that his Prime was not in a mood to be trifled with. The hand blocking his throat intakes squeezed in warning and Prowl forced his doorwings to relax into the rough texture of the tiles at his back. For a long moment, he forced himself to relax in submission, allowing his Prime to dictate his frame position.

“Allow me to express my displeasure with your decision, Prowl,” The baritone rumbled through the younger mech’s frame, but the the hand blocking his vent moved. Prowl tried to resist gasping to clear his vents, but failed. Hot air rushed between the two mechs, letting his dominator know how desperate he had been for fresh, cool air. He could feel the Prime’s smirk, despite not looking at the other mech. 

“Deciding to place almost all of your mechs in Kaon was a underestimation of how much they were needed in the Praxian Wilderness. The Wildlings have been creeping towards the edges of Praxus for quite some time. Kaon, on the other hand, has been a pit hole. It will always be a pit hole,” The Prime’s large hand traced up Prowl’s neck and helm, almost like a lover, tracing his chevron gently. “Perhaps it would have been much smarter to move several units of the Elite Guard to Kaon, instead of sending fully trained reconnaissance mechs to look over a few whining pit-spawned miners.” 

The hand moved from his chevron, tracing back down the side of Prowl’s face. The gentleness of the fingers made a shiver travel down his back strut. He had been beaten ruthlessly by these hands for less grievous errors than this one, making him feel deeply on edge. When the hand spread out over the joint between his doorwing and his back, he stiffened, finally realizing how upset the Prime truly was.

“Forty six energon cubes vanished without a trace this time, my General,” The Prime’s voice rose, along with his torso to address the room at large. “That is sixteen more than the last time the Wildlings managed to raid our stores. Does no one understand that all it takes to fell an Empire is one little petro-rat eating the crumbs? They start with the smallest crumbs they can get away with, but soon they grow more bold, taking anything and everything the Empire doesn’t have eyes on.” By the end of his sentence, Prime’s anger was evident to every mech in the room.

“Luckily for you, General, I have already ordered your units back from Kaon, and allowed my Elite Guard to take their place. This serves two purposes, you see?” The hand fondled the wing joint on Prowl’s back sensuously. Pleasure rocked through him, but it was empty pleasure; knowing that Prime wanted this to hurt as badly as possible. Make him relax, then strike when he was at his most vulnerable.

“The first is that the miners of Kaon will know that their Prime is watching them and watching over them. This should equally strike fear and comfort in their sparks. Those who abide my rule have nothing to fear from me. Isn’t that right, General?” Prowl nodded, his neck cabling tight, knowing that this pain was only a precursor to what his Prime had planned for him.

“The second is that the mechs who are trained for reconnaissance will be where they are needed most, looking for the Wildlings. Those damn miners are too large and too stupid to need to be spied upon. The Elite Guard will…speak a more familiar language to these mechs.”

“Now, Prowl, don’t you see? If you had deigned to use your processor, or come to me for help, we wouldn’t be in this mess, now would we?” At Prowl’s head shake, Prime’s huge hand tightened on the joint in his wing. 

And he tore viciously. Mech blood splashed across the black floor, glowing brightly. 

With a guttural scream of pain, Prowl threw his helm back and made optic contact with his Lord Prime. For a moment, his cry of pain was nearly choked by a spray of his own energon as the Prime held his own doorwing above his faceplate. Thick energon dripped down the wiring of his missing wing, splashing down his intake. 

The Prime dropped the heavy of chunk of metal on the floor next to his thick thigh, demonstrating how little the precious metal of another mech meant to him. As Prowl writhed on the floor in pain, the ornate mech above him rose with an ethereal grace. The glow of his spark and the Matrix lit the dim space, making him appear to be like an avatar of the oldest tales on Cybertron. Lit with a fire that emanated from within. 

“Clean that up and get him out of my sight. Ratchet, be a sweetspark and don’t use any pain medications on our dear General. We want to make sure that he remembers his lesson in submitting to his Prime.” Ratchet’s helm dipped to his Prime as the blue and red plated mech passed. The CMO may have strong opinions in private, but he was no fool. Once the Prime activated the Matrix with his anger, he was more likely to condone and participate in more bloodletting. 

Several mechs rushed to Prowl, hefting him to his pedes and following Ratchet out the double doors of the throne room. Bluestreak stopped on the way out to pick up his commanding officer’s doorwing, wiping up the spilt energon as best he could. Before he rose from his knees, the young mech pressed his helm to the floor in the Prime’s direction, showing his near deity the respect and submission he so demanded. Then the small mech removed himself from the throne room.

“The wildlings are becoming a rampant issue,” A small voice near the side of the chamber rang through the room. The massive Prime merely shifted his helm ever so slightly to the side, indicating that he would listen to the bot in the shadows. 

“They are growing bolder. My sources say that it is possible that a change in leadership may have occurred. I would suggest that we tighten security around the energon storage units in the Praxian wilderness and elsewhere on the fringes of society.” An aging femme stepped out of the darkness; her plating was dull but her optics were as bright as the day she was sparked. 

“It is done. If any wildlings are seen, I want them brought to me unharmed. It is time to make an example of these lowlifes and thieves.” The Prime’s helm moved to gaze out the window to his left. The Praxian forest was far in the distance, but he could see much of his kingdom from the heights of the royal apartments. He knew that some bots chose to live on the fringes of society. Until these raids began drawing attention, he was more or less able to turn a blind optic. But now…

XXXXXXXXX

“We got so much in that last raid! I was dead certain it was a trap, but you were right,” The midnight blue femme rambled, nearly jumping in her excitement. “You’re always right. You should try being wrong once in a while.” She jabbed her companion in the side playfully.

“When I am wrong, my people die. I try very, very hard to not be wrong.” The dark pink femme replied, walking tall and proud next to the blue femme. “Besides, Chromia, why would I need to be wrong when I have you to be wrong for me?” Chromia threw a poorly aimed punch towards her companion, which was easily dodged by the older femme. 

“In all seriousness, that was a great raid. I couldn’t have done it without you. And now we will all get to eat for a while longer. I’m trying to get all of us a little more stable than we were under Moonracer. This is no way for anyone to live,” The pink femme stopped in the middle of a roughly hewn chamber, reaching out to trace her fingers down the damp wall. “This cave is going to make us all sick. Our vents can’t clean this air well enough. Half of the femmes already have problems venting. We need to find a new shelter, get an energon storage unit somehow.” 

The blue femme vented heavily, leaning on the arm of the pink femme next to her.

“Would you please just enjoy the moment, Elita? We have energon, a roof over our heads and we are safe for the moment. Enjoy this.” The pink and blue femmes leaned against once another for a long moment, soaking in each other’s company. Though not connected by spark, both considered the other a sister.

Elita lifted her helm off the other’s shoulder. “I just have a bad feeling, Chromia. We need to move as soon as possible. Who knows when that damnable Prime will come after us again?”


	2. Energon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wildling ponderings and Prime takes out his stresses on his General and Medic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark, violent chapter. Rough sticky interfacing. Mech on mech, threesomes.

_The sound of dripping fluids will forever haunt my recharge_ Elita thought to herself as the sounds of dripping filth echoed through the small chamber. Between the drips and the sounds of the other Wildlings in the group clearing out worn vents, it was looking like she wasn’t going to have any successful recharge this night. _Again_.

 

Chromia was cuddled against her shoulder and had even thrown her knee up and over Elita’s thigh. No escape for her this night. Not that there was ever really an escape from her family, as it were. The Wildlings had all grown up on the edges of society, and were used to all recharging in a mass on the cold, hard ground. It was the only way to survive in such conditions.

 

Most of the Wildlings in their group were femmes. They had come from a myriad of different provinces, but were united by the need for energon and a place to recharge without one of Prime’s lackeys trying to spear them or sell them into the interface trade.

 

Elita herself hailed from the outer edge of the Manganese Mountains. She had been raised, for a while at least, in a home for abandoned sparklings and younglings. When she concentrated, she could pull files of faded memories that seemed like they could have been her creators, but it was difficult to verify. Maybe a trained medic could have unraveled the coding, but there was no guarantee, and Wildlings knew better than to seek medical help outside the group. She’d left the home as soon as she could steal some credits, dumping much of her memory bank when she ran. A new start. Or so she had thought.

 

Chromia’s obnoxious vent clearing rang through the chamber, making several others in the room shift uncomfortably. Elita surveyed the femme resting on her shoulder. The dark blue femme hailed from the outskirts of Kaon. Not a pleasant place in the very center of the city, let alone on the fringes. Elita had tried to talk to Chromia about what led her to join the Wildlings, but the most she ever received from the older femme was a haunted look and a punch to the faceplate. Elita had stopped asking after that.

 

Some of the others in the group, like the littlest mechling, Bumblebee, had come from perfectly fine circumstances in terms of money and status. Of course, the poor thing had been beaten to within an inch of his life when one of the group had found him laying in the forest. He had been bleeding copious amounts of energon out the side of his helm, but Moonracer had been able to heal the mechling and bring him fully into the Wildlings. He was more or less happy now. Which was really all they could ask for.

 

Elita shifted yet again, trying to find a comfortable position in the mass of elbows and sharp helm armaments. It wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish. Internally, she knew that she was mostly trying to distract herself from the topic of Moonracer.

 

The more she tried to avoid thinking about the femme, the more she seemed to dwell on the topic. Moonracer had been in charge of the Wildlings for many vorns. She knew the risks of going into the city. And yet, the mint green femme had risked everything and gone into Kaon during the last raid. No one had seen or heard from her since.

 

Elita had a bad feeling in the depths of her tank that the older femme had either been killed or sold to a brothel. She quickly offered up a prayer to Primus that Moonracer had been offlined rather than being pressed into another brothel. ‘Racer had told all the mechs and femmes of the group the horrors that awaited any bot with a valve inside of the halls of the brothels of Kaon. She had told them the harrowing story of how she gotten out. Problem was, it changed almost time in some slight way. No one ever knew exactly how truthful the femme was.

 

When ‘Racer didn’t come back to Wildling territory for a full vorn, Elita decided to officially put herself forward as the head of the group. No one had yet challenged her authority, but her fortunes had thus far been good. None of the group had been damaged, and they had always had enough energon to go around. Not a lot more than the bare minimum, but enough to keep their tanks from cracking. More than could be said of Moonracer’s reign, that was for certain.

 

A knee joint cracked into the side of her helm, and Elita heaved a great sigh. These kinds of groups came together out of necessity, but they stayed together out of a twisted love for each other. Oh, sure, they would beat the pit out of each other when something needed to be settled, but when the match was done, they would all patch each other up and settle down over their meager rations.

 

She glanced to the side of the cave, the soft glow of energon cubes lighting her faceplate dimly. _Not enough energon to last us for the orn._ Which meant that she would have to plan another raid and yet again put her crew in danger. Or, she could mitigate the danger and send some of the younger and cuter mechs into the city to beg for credits. (And steal what credits they could get away with.)

 

Praxus made her anxious. The mechs and femmes who lived in the city had credits. Most of them, anyways. ‘Bots with credits tend to get a little excited when they see a poor, dirty mechling begging in the streets. Sometimes her crew would dwindle when a well meaning mech or femme decided that the youngling was better off in a center than on the streets.

 

It was a terrible thought, and Elita knew she should be happy for the younglings, but she wanted those mechlings and femlings with her. She and the group needed them for snatching credits.

 

Besides having rich mechs and femmes, Praxus was also a stronghold of the Prime. Elite Guard mechs were crawling over the city on any given orn, reminding everyone that the Prime loved them and wanted to give them all the best possible lives. Except for those who foolishly challenged the status-quo or wanted to live their own lives without Autobot codes.

 

The Prime was not known for being the most sympathetic of mechs. From the whispers Elita and the others had picked up from the street urchins, the Prime was constantly at war with himself. He had his own set of thoughts and ideas, but then again, so did the Matrix. And the Matrix was attached to his very spark, like a parasite. And parasites always took from the host and rarely gave anything of real value back.

 

Many vorns ago, Elita had the displeasure of watching a holovid of the Prime flaying the back plating off another Wildling. She didn’t know the mech he was torturing; he was from another band. But she did know that the Prime took disgusting glee in explaining to the half-offline mech that the reason he was being beaten was because he was an affront to the Prime. After all, those who were not under his thumb were not being properly provided for and looked after.

 

At the time, Elita had almost laughed. Being surrounded by the crowds of Iacon, she was glad she was able to stave off the giggle. Or else it would have been her on the block being tortured. But, honestly. A Prime who had the audacity to claim that he wanted to provide for and look after a mech whom he was torturing at the very time he spoke. Disgusting.

 

And thus, Elita was very wary to send any of her small band into Praxus for credits or energon. This Prime was violent, and she wasn’t sure that he would spare a youngling. He wouldn’t televise the affair, but she couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t torture them in the privacy of his towers.

 

And yet…the sad glow of what little energon they had stockpiled reflected in her optics. It was time to risk everything and go again. Soon, at least.

 

Mirage poked his pede into her optic ridge, sighing in blissful contentment. What she wouldn’t give to be young and wild again. Not a care in the world.

 

She slowly intiated the shut down of her systems as the energon cubes reflected in her optics. At least she knew she would feel full in her dreams. She might even have an illicit lover in her dreams. One who brought her immense pleasure and could fill her aching tank. _Hey, a femme can dream_ …

 

* * *

 

“And how is our General feeling this fine morning?”

 

Every bot in the med bay jumped to attention. Even those on the medical berths missing limbs tried to make themselves seem as put together as possible. There was a dominant mech in the room, and none of the ‘Bots wanted to appear weak. The weak were systematically killed. Only the strong would contribute to the future of Cybertron.

 

Prowl’s helm snapped up, chevron glinting under the harsh lighting. “My Lord Prime! I am more than well enough to be placed back on the duty roster.” He sat up a little straighter, forcing his doorwing to flare in respect to his commander. He swallowed the gasp of pain, knowing that any further weakness would be punished.

 

Under the harsh lighting of the medical bulbs, their Prime was a specimen to behold. Long, powerful legs. A wide chest and slender hips. Broad shoulders, strong arms. He was truly the first and best of the Cybertronian race. And he knew it.

 

“Prime! Leave that mech be,” Ratchet poked his helm out from the curtain next to Prowl’s berth. “I haven’t cleared him for active duty yet. And need I remind you that I can always have you declared mentally unstable and have _you_ sent to the execution block.”

 

The Prime chuckled, patting Prowl’s leg plating and slipping a finger in the joint between his pede, gently tracing the delicate wiring. The General jumped as a mag pulse slammed into his leg, traveling up his chassis and into his spark and valve. Prime only had two temperatures – hot and cold. Prowl was convinced that the mech couldn’t touch anyone in a clinical fashion. There was either pain or pleasure. Nothing in between.

 

“Ah, Ratchet. I will remember this little conversation the next time you come pleading me to fuck you into the wall. Or the next time I walk in here to find yourself fingering your valve, begging anyone who will listen to fuck you. Or, maybe, I will issue a command that no one is to touch my CMO. Ever again.” Prowl’s optics offlined and rebooted as pulse after pulse rocketed into him. His valve was weeping behind its plating, as was his spike. He and Jazz hadn’t been able to blow off steam in far too long. He wouldn’t last if Prime kept that up.

 

Ratchet once again appeared from behind the screen, pointing a finger at the Prime. “Try me, Prime. Your next few medical appoints may have to wait a while. I don’t think I have the parts in stock to change out your ankle joint. And then it looks like you may have to wait a few more weeks before I’ll have the time install them.”

 

Prowl keened softly as the mag pulses stopped. Prime’s attention was fully on the curtain the medic had disappeared behind. Prowl stayed as still as he could, with his vents heaving and his valve clenching upon itself. He was so close to release, and yet…Prime wouldn’t stop such like this if he wasn’t up to something.

 

The amazing thing about Prime was that he could move at such incredible speeds. One second, he was at the foot of Prowl’s medical berth, the next, he was through the curtain and had Ratchet by the chevron.

 

The medic was spluttered and extracted his hands from the internals of the soldier he was repairing. “Prime! He will go offline if you stop me now! I just need a few more moments and I will do whatever you like,” The medic pleaded with his Prime in the High Dialect of the Primes, “He will offline, my Lord Prime. Another soldier sent to the Primus prematurely, and without your guiding hand!”

 

Prime paid him no attention as his optics flashed a cold blue. Ratchet had gone too far, yet again. Prime’s repairs were no joking matter. Prowl wondered if Prime had not contemplated offlining the medic at several points in their lives. After all, Ratchet had belonged to the Prime line for several hundred vorn. He had survived Nova and Sentinel Prime, and had finally been passed to Optimus. Maybe he was still learning the boundaries with Optimus.

 

Prime hauled the large medic up by his throat tubing and pinned him to the berth Prowl was resting on. “Suck the good General’s spike, medic. I want to hear him sing your praises as a cock sucker.”

 

Ratchet growled, looking over at his patient, before laving his glossa over Prowl’s cod piece. “Open up, you pitspawned piece of sla-.” Before he could fully finish the thought, Prowl’s spike was nestled in his intake. Maybe if he could finish Prowl off as quickly as possible, he could get to the patient in time.

 

Prime, however, had a different idea on the matter. With Ratchet bent over the berth, Prime grinned and ripped off the medic’s panel. His valve was dry, having had no warning that the mad Prime was going to throw him into an angry interfacing session. Ratchet had plenty of experience with angry, dry interfacing. Nova was fond of taking a dry valve. Said it was always much more satisfying to feel the lubricants building than to have a soggy valve from the get go. So, when Prime shoved his rod into his dry port, Ratchet grimaced around Prowl’s spike, but didn’t cry in pain. This was more or less familiar. He would heat up quickly.

 

Prowl, though, was already far too worked up to last long. Seeing his Lord Prime shove his way into Ratchet’s dry valve was the tipping point for his self control. Transfluid sprayed the interior of Ratchet’s intake, coating his glossa with the sticky, musty flavor of stale metal. _Prowl must not be getting busy with Jazz as much as he should be._ Ratchet thought as the old transfluid coated his glossa. He swallowed what he could, making a note to call Jazz and berate the mech for not taking proper care of his mate.

 

Prime watched Prowl overload onto Ratchet’s frame, feeling the smaller frame tighten and release, moving the berth ever so slightly. Mildly hot, he supposed. Though Prowl and Ratchet were still far from his favorite interface companions. They were both a touch too stiff and quiet for his tastes. And, frankly, too blocky and mechly for him to be interested in training them to be louder and more bold. Too much energy spent with not enough return on the investment. For now, he would stick with mechs like Jazz and femmes like Flamewar. Vivacious, loud and more than happy to be fully dominated in the berth.

 

Between the pulling of Ratchet’s valve on his spike, the smell of transfluid in the air, and thinking of Flamewar and Jazz, he wouldn’t last long. It had been almost three entire orns since he has last interfaced. Maybe a record. But then again, with the wildling problem hanging over him, he hadn’t had time to think of such pleasures.

 

With a groan and slap to Ratchet’s aft, the great commander spilt his transfluid into the medic’s valve. There was far too much fluid to be contained in the medic, and the overused valve overflowed onto the berth and down the smaller mech’s thighs.

 

“About time, fragger,” Ratchet nearly moaned, standing upright and jogging across to the offlining mech. As Prime rolled his shoulders and closed his panel, he realized that a medical alarm was blaring. The patient Ratchet had been working on was in critical condition. Prime’s optics drank in the sight of his medic, covered in transfluid from all orifices, working to stabilize the other mech. Maybe he could go for another round.

 

He looked down to the General. The black and white mech was already in recharge. Pathetic. Prime scanned the medbay, finally remembering his original intent.

 

“Ah, Hound! Just the mech I wanted to see,” Prime inclined his head to the Special Operations field specialist. “I saw that you will be released into duty tomorrow. How fortunate. I have a special project for you.”

 

The green mech grinned easily up at his Prime. Unlike most, Hound had never been on the receiving end of his Prime’s displeasure. Or pleasure, for that matter. He managed to stay off the larger mech’s radar. And that was fine by him.

 

“Aw, Prime. You know I am always raring and ready to help ya. What can I do for you this fine orn?” Intelligent blue optics met blazing cold ones for a split moment before Hound looked away. Optic contact with the Prime was a surefire way to put yourself _on_ the radar.

 

“I need you to run a team on the outskirts of the Praxian Wilderness. I seem to have a slight Wildling problem, and I think you and your team can help,” The Prime lowered his bulk onto the medical berth next to Hound, so that he could lean back against the wall, taking the weight off his ankle. _Old war injury must be playing up again. He’ll be downright horrible until Ratchet fixes the damn thing._ Hound thought to himself, grimacing slightly. _I should warn the team to lay low for a while._

 

“I need you to spring a trap for our little thieves. Use your imagination. I only care that they are captured and brought to me. No killing sprees for your mechs this time. If all goes to plan in Kaon, there will be plenty of time for that later.” Those dark optics looked down at the helm of the smaller mech, crowding him for space. Reading the SpecOps mech for any dominant behavior. He found none. Hound was truly a professional at blending in and being whatever he needed to be to complete a mission and not be slagged. Even by his own commander.

 

“I think I can work with those terms.” The green mech smiled up at his Prime, mirth glowing in their depths.

 

“Good. See to it.” The Prime swung his legs up onto the berth, sliding down the wall. When he was fully prostrate, one red arm reached over and shoved the other mech to the floor. “You leave now.”

 

“I haven’t cleared him for active duty yet!” Ratchet’s muffled yell could be heard from across the bay, but Hound was already out the door and down the hall. And the Prime was already in recharge.

 

_I get no respect_ the medic grumbled. _But I do get fucked by the most handsome mechs on the damn ship. Even if I don’t get off. Damnable slaggers._ He commed the only mech he actually wanted to fuck. :: _Wheeljack, meet me after your shift. On the berth, hands behind your back, panel bare.::_

 

 


	3. Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Optimus Prime smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Earth's history inspired this chapter. Rulers on Earth are often unhinged, and they only have small chunks of the planet. A mech who rules an entire planet unchallenged would be absolutely insane. Also, "Come home with you shield or upon it" was a saying in ancient Sparta. You either died in combat or you came home proud. There were no other options.

It was orns like this that made Prime shudder with pleasure, sinking up to his audial finials in the heated oil bath. Certainly, the operation on his ankle had been one of the worst experiences of the past vorns, but at least now he could move it again. Deep blue optics flickered on, glancing down at the offending appendage. The joint was brand new, out of place among all the scars and imperfections of his battle armor. Soon enough it would dull, joining the rest of his plating in showing his prowess in battle.

 

The liquid oil shifted along his frame, droplets clinging and sliding as he lifted the injured leg out of the bath. The good Doctor had prescribed him to take it easy for a few orns. Primus knew he had enough paper work to keep him occupied. Red and blue plating groaned as he stretched to pick up yet another data pad off the stack next to the bath. One of the servants had moved in about a third of the data pads from his desk into his washrack.

 

Disgust fluttered to the forefront of his processor. He should be better than this. His mechs and femmes needed him to keep on top of the administrative side of his work, not just the military side. Sentinel never fell behind on his duties. Nova did, but Nova had a myriad of other pressing problems. Such as an ailing and failing processor. Not to mention all the time he spent wooing and fucking his underlings. At times, it seemed like no one left in the Primes' towers hadn't been taken by his predecessor. No wonder Nova fell behind on his duties so often.

 

Heaters imbedded in the large bathing vessel clicked to life, keeping the oil at his preferred temperature - incredibly hot. Prime focused his processor on the data flashing in front of his optics on the data pad. The glyphs blurred in the steam put off by the oil. After a few clicks of trying to get his processor to acknowledge the glyphs on the screen, he simply gave up. The Prime’s hand went slack on the screen, dropping the data pad onto the floor with a clack. He closed his vents and sunk deeper into the liquid. Concentrating on anything other then the crushing weight of his responsibilities.

 

He considered calling Jazz. That little mech was always ‘down for a wild ride,’ as he would so eloquently state. But lately, little Jazz had been severely distracted by his own sparkmate. It was no secret that Jazz and Prowl had gone official, but it was a touch disturbing none the less. His best Sabateur had taken up with his best General. Prime had pushed them both to the edge, to see if their bond was a liability to him.

 

Memories flooded his processor. Jazz missing pieces of plating, laid out on the floor in the throne room. Prowl missing a wing after his failure in sending troops to Kaon instead of Praxus. Both mechs seemed to be dealing with the strain of their relationship quite well. Neither of them were seemingly distracted while the other was in physical pain. Emotional pain was an entirely different proposition.

 

After Prime had taken Jazz to berth a few orns ago, the mech had seemed distracted. Prime had a sneaking suspicion that the younger mech had been speaking to his mate through their bond. Of course, he couldn't prove it. Every time he began to suspect Jazz's distraction, the smaller mech managed to clench his valve in just the right way, or he would lick his Prime's antenna. Afterwards, the experience left Prime confused and...alone? Was that the feeling coursing through his systems? Did he feel lonely?

 

As much as he longed to scoff at the idea - he had more than enough servants and underlings dying to be on his berth - he stilled under the scalding liquid. Maybe he was a touch lonely. Seeing Prowl meet Jazz in the hallway after Prime had taken the Saboteur had been a startling sight. The black and white General had been sitting on the floor on his aft outside of Prime's quarters.  While his faceplate was shoved in a datapad, his wings were taught with tension, not the relaxed and sure wings of a secure mech. Upon seeing his mate, the General has risen to his pedes lightly, and taken Jazz under his arm. Both mechs had bowed to their Prime, backs of their necks showing in complete submission. As if an extension of one another, they turned and walked down the corridor, completely unafraid to be seen in such close proximity.

 

Something about the exchange has rocked him. Since he had been a young mech, he had known he was going to inherit the Matrix and become Prime. Sentinel Prime has found him working in the archives under Alpha Trion. The dark orange Prime declared before the old mech and all there that the Matrix had led him to find the young mech known as Orion Pax.

 

He, of course, had been flattered and excited. A young mech, on the verge of truly being an adult, he had been swayed by the seductive words whispered by the older Prime. Sentinel tempted Orion in ways that only a Prime could tempt. Riches beyond Orion's wildest imagination were shown to him as if the massive account contained no more than a few credits. When Sentinel had casually mentioned that the account was only one in a series of over a few hundred, Orion had rebooted his processor. When Sentinel had shown Orion the subtle power of having mechs and femmes bow to him when they passed, Orion had felt a whisper of true temptation flit through his processor.

 

However, doubts still lingered. The office of Prime was a lofty one, indeed. Much was known about the public face of the Prime. He was often seen smiling down at his citizens, making public appearances on news stations and popular programs. He opened new energon mines and made threats towards those who would seek to damage the greater good of Cybertron. Orion was thrown into training headlong. He was taught to speak like a Prime, walk like a Prime and fight like a Prime. He was taught to control Bots through quiet words and cunning manipulations. He was introduced to the many mechs and femmes who made up the Elite Guard. They fell to their knees before him, pledging future alliance to him. And only him.

 

Slowly, Orion's misgivings fell to the wayside. Sentinel showed him that being the Prime as easily worth the trials given to him. For full vorns, Orion had been treated to the finest high grade and energon treats. When a small but brave force of Quintessons had invaded the outer reaches of the Polis Provence, Sentinel had called upon him to assist. For the first time since being courted for the Primacy, Orion Pax had been outfitted with full battle armor and was commanding a battalion. Sentinel gave him advice and a custom made sword and sent him into battle. The message was clear. Come home with your shield, or upon it. In the end, more than thirty of his battalion had been offlined, but the Quintessons had been beaten and executed.

 

Orion had confidently strut into the throne room of Sentinel Prime and presented his Prime with the helm of the Quintesson General. Sentinel had gently, almost lovingly, lifted the helm out of his hands and held it aloft. For a moment, the Prime had stared into the dark eyes of the Quintesson, before swiveling his helm and fixating his gaze on the young mech on his knees before him. Then the elder Prime had thrown Orion on his back and taken him with ferocity.

 

Orion Pax had been a fully sealed mech. He had foolishly been waiting for the right mech or femme to romance him and then he would share fully with them. He had even thought about saving his seals until his bonding day. But the massive elder Prime had other ideas for his young protégé.

 

He had known Sentinel was a depraved mech before then, of course. The first time he had walked into to throne room and seen a femme sucking the Prime's spike, he'd nearly choked on his own glossa. Civilized mechs did such things behind closed doors. Sentinel had chuckled at Orion's shock, prompting the younger mech to say his piece. Orion had reported the status of troops in Kalis, unable to keep his optics from flitting to the femme on her knees in front of his Prime. Sentinel had listened to his report as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The femme seemed perfectly at ease as well, even wriggling her aft in Orion's direction alluringly as she slurped the length of her Prime's spike with gusto. Seemingly in the middle of a sentence, the Prime had thrown back his dark orange helm and ejaculated into the mouth of the femme. She, for her part, made a sound of delight as her Prime filled her empty tanks and intake with transfluid. One of her hands covered the hand Sentinel was resting on her helm, intertwining their fingers together. It was almost a gesture of lovers. It had been most difficult for Orion to finish his report after that, even more distracted now that the femme was purring in contentment at her Prime's pedes, her glossa chasing remnants of his transfluid from her faceplate.

 

Optimus was startled out of his memories as the door to his washrack slid open to admit a femme. The same femme, in fact. The vorns had not been kind to her finish. Her dark plating flashed in the dim lighting. Her optics had dimmed with age and stress, leaving the femme looking permanently drained. He supposed that a broken spark bond would do such a thing to a Bot.

 

"Bladespark," Prime rumbled from his place in the oil. "What have I told you about breaking into my quarters?" His voice was tired, weary, instead of angry. The femme stalked through the opulent room, opening the shelving units embedded in the back of the unit.

 

"Damn you to pit, you piece of filth!" Bladespark snarled, slamming a shelving unit closed behind her. "I've been doing nothing but cleaning up your messes today."

 

Despite his vulnerable position and the femme being behind him, Prime stayed open and relaxed. He could destroy the femme with one flick of a finger. She posed no physical threat. But there were other threats associated with this femme.

 

"You never seemed to mind cleaning up Sentinel's messes..." Prime sank deeper into the oil, allowing it to sensuously caress his chassis and spark. The Matrix pulsed inside his chest, reminding him that it too felt the femme's distress. Being Sentinel's sparkmate, the Matrix knew her intimately, and could sense her. Had Sentinel still been alive, the Matrix would have been able to sense him as well. Any who had a spark to spark connection to the relic could be sensed.

 

"Cute, youngling." The femme dead panned as she rooted through the storage, expensive polish clattering to the floor as the went. A cleaning drone beeped softly, separating from a wall dock, and began flitting around the femme's ankle struts, attempting to clean the mess. "I still remember how your optics fritzed the first time you saw Sentinel face fuck me on the floor of the throne room. You looked so cute; young, naive little Orion Pax. So new to the way of the Primes."

 

"I was just thinking about those days. It seems I will never live down some of them." He stated dryly, heaving most of his chassis out the fluid. It seemed that his relaxing time was coming to a close. The femme made a noise of assent, and then a little noise of triumph as she found what she was looking for.

 

"You were adorable. I told Sentinel that I wanted a sparkling just like you one day." Her gaze softened as she looked at the younger mech over her shoulder, moving to the side of the great tub. She settled her weight on the ledge next to his helm, her hands holding a polishing wax made of the finest ingredients from an organic planet. Frankly, he hated the smell of it, but it did make him shine like an Avatar of Primus. Which was why the femme at his side loved it so much.

 

Bladespark reached out a hand and traced his helm finials gently. In the vorns since Sentinel's passing, the femme had become something of a mentor to him. They'd had a few sensual interfaces in those vorns, but it had always been her who initiated them. It wasn't that Prime disliked the femme; he just had too much respect for her to use her like he used others under his reign. He paid his respects to Sentinel every time this femme came to him. He knew he was her only lover. Before Sentinel had been murdered, he had given Orion free reign of his femme should anything happen to him. Greater praise could not be had from Sentinel. For the elder mech to trust him so spoke volumes.

 

Prime kissed her fingers gently when they rested on his lips for a moment. The femme smiled lightly, but moved away. He received the subtle message and sent a command to his over eager spike that it was not acceptable to hit his crotch plating with such gusto. That hurt. He shifted in the oil, and the femme giggled lightly. All femmes were the same, thinking they could get a mech excited and then leave him wanting. At least mechs had the common decency to finish the job once they'd begun. The Matrix pulsed angrily, reminding him that he hadn’t interfaced since his surgery. He'd have to call on Flamewar this orn, if Bladespark didn't give him release.

 

Instead, Bladespark slid down the length of the tub ledge, picking up his newly replaced ankle gently. She inspected the work his CMO had done. The femme had seen her fare share of injuries, to her own mate and others. She hummed a little as she inspected, pulling him this way and that, making sure that he could rotate the joint properly.

 

"Ratchet does excellent work. Do you need help standing?" She intoned, looking Prime in the optics, searching for an answer. He bristled, even knowing that the femme wouldn't care nor tell if he did need help. Weakness was not something he showed often. He shook his helm, pulling his legs closer to his body.

 

To spare him the embarrassment of being watched, the femme stood and swapped her polish container for the datapads on the floor. She scooped them up in her arms and walked out of the washrack, towards his adjoining office. A wave of affection for the femme swept over his systems. He understood why Sentinel chose her. Hopefully the Council wouldn't ask him to mate for many more vorns.

 

Prime struggled to his pedes, making sure that the ankle strut would hold his entire weight. It did. Ratchet was nothing short of a true professional, no doubt. He should reward the medic.

 

"Bladespark," he called quietly, "Tell the General to take Ratchet and Wheeljack off the duty roster for the next three orns."

 

The dark femme merely nodded, walking back into the room on whisper quiet pedes. His interface drive screamed at him. The Matrix did too, knowing that a familiar presence was near. A presence that had brought the previous Matrix bearer a good amount of comfort and pleasure. The Matrix was a true guiding light for the Prime, holding infinite wisdom, but it didn't quite understand the complexities of timelines. To the Matrix, Sentinel Prime was still very much alive, simply buried deep within its core.

 

When Prime shuddered and threw a hand out to the wall, Bladespark stopped dead. This Prime had never taken her in a violent manner, but she was often a witness to those he did take with violence. For some reason, the Primes were all a touch unstable, perhaps being tormented by the Matrix was already taking its toll.

 

She had learned with Sentinel that beign submissive was of tantamount importance with these mechs. While she liked to think of herself as a strong willed femme, Primes were high strung and strong as pit. And that was before they called on the Matrix. With the Matrix...standing up to one was suicide. So, she swallowed her pride and stood stalk still, optics cast towards the floor.

 

Prime vented harshly, shunting his energy towards cooling his rapidly overheating systems. His interface programming was running hotter and harder than usual. It was simply a sign of stress. Between his surgery, the Wildling raids and the reports coming in from Kaon, he needed to blow off some stress. Luckily, the Matrix hadn't integrated with his systems quite yet. His thighs trembled, locking his knee joints and focusing on the simplicity of venting.

 

Bladespark stood waiting for the unbalanced mad mech to decide his course of action. Her sensors were flooding her processor with data about the mech in front of her, letting her know that the temperature in the wash rack was raising by several degrees a click. She fought to keep herself venting steadily, not wanting to draw attention. Before Sentinel had claimed her as a mate, she had made the mistake of goading him while he had been in a similar state. Her valve had been sore for a decacycle, and her backplate had been in such terrible condition that Ratchet had scrapped it and made her a new one. And that was after Sentinel had released her from his quarters. Two orns later.

 

 

While the experience had been in turns pleasurable and painful, it had laid the foundations for her affection and respect for Sentinel. He was aggressive and rough, that much was true. She had given her body to him freely and expected nothing in return. He was, after all, her Prime. It was her duty and honor to serve him however he saw fit. Despite his aggression, she had never overloaded so hard in her entire life. He dominated her thoroughly, tying her pedes to his berth and practically demanding her to overload. What happened in that berth was sacred to her and her mate. And it will stay that way.

 

The Prime currently in front of her deserved the same experience with a younger, more vibrant mech or femme. Not that her broken spark could really contribute anything even if Optimus had wanted it. No, Sentinel was her only sparkmate. Even if she occasionally gave her frame to this Prime, her spark belonged to another.

 

"Why are you still here?" The mech in front of her ground out, one hand rubbing his chest plates with fervor, trying to rid itself of the stinging sensation from the Matrix.

 

She knew exactly what he was saying. And it wasn't a directive to leave the washrack.

 

"You know why. I promised Vector Sigma that I would see you through until I was no longer needed." She answered honestly, her voice a little hoarse despite the humidity of the cozy chamber.

 

"You are no longer needed. I am doing fine." He grated as he stood slumped and clutching his chest plating. She stifled a laugh. To challenge him now would be risking Matrix integration. The Matrix may recognize her as a loved one, but that didn't mean anything. The Matrix might be happier if she was reunited with her mate in death.

 

"Respectfully, my Prime, you look like you're doing as well as I am." She answered, keeping her posture open and submissive, her voice quiet. If he took poorly to her words, at least she was loose enough that being pounced on probably wouldn't break anything. Probably.

 

But the Prime across the room merely glared at her, absorbing the barb. He dropped his hand and straightened.

 

"I'm doing fine. I do not need you looking after me. I'm not your sparkling. You can go to the Well of Allsparks and join your mate. I'm sure he wants you more than I do." It was her turn to suffer the barb. She missed Sentinel so much that sometimes it felt like she was just an empty shell.

 

"You know as well as I that I'm stuck here until Vector Sigma releases me. So, we are both stuck here until that damnable computer decides that you're done with me." Dark arms crossed over her body, shielding herself from the hurtful truths.

 

"Fine. Then why are you here bothering me?" He too crossed his arms over his chassis, looking much more imposing that she could ever manage in the same pose.

 

"Oh. Hound says they've caught some Wildlings. Thought you'd like to...greet them yourself, my Lord Prime."

 

For the first time since he could remember, the mighty Prime smiled. Maybe he could work off his charge in another way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. In the Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

"I don't like any of this slag," Chromia muttered as she sat surveying the wilderness around them. The crystals were glowing peacefully, but the dawn was silent. Almost too silent. But then again, local wildlife was still out and about. Chromia caught sight of several small mechanoanimals staring at them from the towering trees. If the mechanoanimals weren't scared, then was no reason for her to be scared. Had there been any Bots around, then there wouldn't be any mechanoanimals out. Still cautious, she stayed silent and watched the ground below her. 

Elita had put her in charge of scoping out the mission before sending any of the strike team to gather the energon. They'd gotten lucky the last few times they'd done this, and Elita was pit-bent on making sure that no one was injured or captured on the raid. Other Wildling groups could suffer their casualties for them, as far as Elita was concerned. Their family unit would remain intact. 

Chromia signaled the first of the strike team to approach. Windlight, a tiny femme with slender wings and quick, quiet pedes was the leader of this raid. She was young, but Chromia knew the young femme was more than capable of grabbing what they needed and getting out. She couldn't carry all the cubes by herself, though, even if she wanted to. 

Besides, for safety, all Autobots had taken to storing their energon in containers embedded within the confines of Cybertron itself. Chromia supposed that it would keep the populace safe if an explosion were to occur. But it made stealing it that much harder. From experience, she knew that infiltrating the underground safes was easy enough. And Autobots were nothing if not creatures of habit. Immediately behind the door would be one guard. A few steps inside, and one would be just to the right, manning the console and equipment used to control inventory. 

Those inside the bunker definitely had the upper hand. It was very difficult to open the hatch without making noise. That they had figured out from the last three hits. One of the young kings in their group had an unusual ability to super heat his fingertips and could cut a neat hole in the metal hatch, magnetize his opposite hand and pull the hatch clean off, allowing a few small invaders to slip in unnoticed. Then it was up to those on the strike team to do so quickly and quietly. If one of the guards managed to alert an outside Autobot, all would be lost. They'd have to move on again, find a new shelter and scope out all new terrain.

Windlight crouched low, hunkered silently at the base of the crystal tree opposite of Chromia's hiding spot. Another densely compacted mech appeared next to her. Huntbringer, an insecticon youngling, joined her. He wasn’t a fast processor, but he followed orders and it took surprisingly little energon to keep him going. Once they'd found out he could heat his fingers and melt metal, he was deemed an immediate keeper. 

Together, the pair moved towards the hatch, moving as quietly as they could manage. Windlight took up behind the Insecticon mechling, pulling out a lightweight homemade shock stick. Elita and Chromia had agreed early on that any non-adult-framed member of the group was not allowed a live round weapon. A youngling with a gun was a recipe for disaster, no matter how you sliced it. So they got handheld small weapons. It taught them responsibility as well as stealth. Even those of the group who did carry real weapons rarely used them. Live rounds were often traceable, and plasma rounds are energy. Not good for a group barely subsiding. 

Huntbringer began his work, implicitly trusting the youngling behind him with his care should they be attacked. Chromia kept both her optics and audios on alert for anything out of the ordinary. Huntbringer rested his opposite hand on the scalding hot metal, signaling to the rest of the group scattered around he area that it was time to move in for the kill. Chromia heard the subtle sounds of mechs and femmes falling into position. She, Elita and Windlight would be the first three through the hatch. They would be followed by Huntbringer, who would take up post behind the three femmes and guard them from any aerial attacks. 

That was the plan, at least. Primus knows both elder femmes had seen their raids go sideways all the time. Sometimes there were extra guards. Once, there had only been one guard, but he managed to hit the panic button before they killed him. That one had left them empty handed and injured. Which, basically, is what they were trying to avoid with this raid. 

The younglings beneath her removed the hatch plating with practiced ease. Elita appeared beside the hatch, silent as a ghost. Chromia holstered her weapon on her back plating and slowly made her way down the tree she had been watching from. Elita might have been all grace and poise, but Chromia was a little taller and a lot heavier. Heavy femmes and graceful descents from trees did not mix. 

Once on the ground, Elita and Chromia nodded to one another. Chromia took point, carefully lowering her body through the hatch. Elita and Windlight followed close behind, pedes echoing on the metal floor with a slight ping. Huntbringer rounded out the raid party, landing with more of a thud than a ping. 

Elita quickly hacked the panel separating the raiders from the energon and enemy combatants. Windlight and Chromia readied their light hand-to-hand weapons. No shots could be fired around the energon, or else their lives and the mission would go up in flames. Quite literally. 

The door hissed open, and the game was afoot. There were three mechs in this storage chamber. More than the two they usually had, but one more combatant was not unheard of. Especially given all of their successful raids over the last few vorns. Chromia smirked. Maybe the Autobots were finally learning. 

Elita viciously slashed the mech waiting right behind the door, severing his neck cables with one flick of her wrist. The movement was well practiced and well-executed, leaving her opponent with a fatal injury. Nicely done. 

Windlight was already halfway across the room, dealing with another mech. Chromia saw her electrocute the poor mech right between his legs. She learned how to deal with mechs from the best. Chromia threw her knife into the hand of the mech stationed at the console. It flew straight and true, pinning the mech's hand to the console, which then began sparking angrily. Hopefully she had managed to cut something important, and the Autobots wouldn't be able to call out even if they wanted to. 

Elita separated her knife from the neck plates of her victim, allowing him to fall to the floor in front of her pedes. Chromia rushed the mech pinned to the console, snapping his neck with one easy movement. 

Then the console and mech in her hands simply vanished. Almost as though they had been a bad line of code in her processor. Time seemed to slow as she turned her helm to look at Elita and Windlight. 

The other femmes looked just as shocked as the felt. The other guards were also gone, along with the pile of energon cubes. Everything in the chamber was simply gone, as though it had never existed. 

A cold shudder went through her back strut, and she looked to Elita with panic shining bright in her optics. The dark pink femme drew her firearm, faceplates set in resolve. Chromia drew her weapon off her back, stepping forward to close ranks with the other two femmes in the room. Windlight clutched her staff tightly, but it still trembled slightly. If they made it out of this, the little femme would be getting her first powered weapon. 

The three femmes moved silently towards the spot where they had left Huntbringer. Elita took point this time, stepping to the side of the door frame and pointing her weapon around the corner. No shots were fired. In fact, it was much too quiet. Huntbringer was not a quiet mech. His systems were always humming, working constantly to cool his dense frame. As they stood just outside of where they left him, there was no hum of systems. Just a quiet like that left behind in the wake of a large fight or disaster. 

Chromia took up a position on the other side of the doorframe, pulling Windlight beside her. Chromia knew that survival was practically out of reach. Being underground, anyone on the upper surface had them trapped. All it would take was one grenade, and they would be done for. And with no energon left in the chamber, the Autobots wouldn't even suffer any real casualties. 

"Are ya'll going to come out where we can see ya, or am I gunna have to come get ya myself?" A mech’s voice carried down the hatch. It sounded almost friendly, like he was ribbing a close friend instead of playing with his prey. 

Without bothering to consult her second in command, Elita stepped into the ray of light just outside the doorframe and fired her weapon up into the light. 

"Aw, don't be like that, little femmes. You're at a touch of a disadvantage as it is. I'd really hate to have to come down there. Or maybe not." 

Chromia just about jumped out of her plating as a mech with olive green plating and the Elite Guard symbol on his chassis appeared out of nowhere next to her. The damn mech was a projector! And a damn good one, judging on how realistic the energon, the mechs, the console - all of it - looked and acted amazing.

"What are your terms?" Elita shouted, sinking down the wall to sit on her aft. Chromia growled. Elita wasn't just her commander. They were best friends and occasional lovers, and seeing her look so broken on the floor rocked her to her core. Elita was always the cheerful, confident one of the group. Always an optimist. Almost.

"Terms?" The mech above laughed, and was echoed by what sounded like at least another dozen or so mechs and femmes. "We don't have any terms, little fem. We only have demands. By order of Optimus Prime, you and your group of Wildlings will surrender to his authority. 

Windlight sagged against Chromia's shoulder. The little femme already knew she was as good as dead. They all were. Maybe the rest of the group would be okay. Her spark ached for the little ones. Bumblebee was going to be crushed. He loved his Elita. Pit, she loved Elita. 

"Listen here you fucker!" Chromia shouted, "if you're going to take us to Prime and let him kill us, then you should know that we have an entire group of Wildlings out there. They're vicious and will plot revenge." The bluff came out confident, zealous and a touch maniacal. So, pretty good, considering. 

More laughter floated down from the top. "Oh, yeah, I know what yer talking about. That little black and yellow sparkling was a fighter. I think he managed to scrape my leg a lil bit. I'll have to have the Hatchet patch me up when I get back." 

Elita's helm snapped up, fear and rage commingling in her optics. 

"What did you do with them?" Chromia asked, readying her rifle for battle, stealing her power reserves for what could be a pit of a fight. They'd been in tough scrapes before, but nothing like this. The only way out of this would be suicide. The thought soured her tank. Suicide was the cowardly way out of this world. Primus did not congratulate those who came through the well through their own hand. 

"Don't you worry your pretty lil helm about them. They're already halfway to Iacon. Prime ordered an express permit for them to cross restricted airspace. You should be honored. Only the Prime may order such a thing. You must be special." A few excited giggles came through. Chromia shrugged at Elita. They were pretty much out of options. It was going to be either a clean surrender, or they would spill mech blood. Elita stood, pulling her rifle close to her chassis, keeping her knife pressed in her opposite hand. A fight it was. 

"I'm not feeling like takin’ ya up on yer kindly offer, mister!" Chromia shouted up, mocking the other mech's accent. "You'll hafta come down and collect us yerself."

Elita joined her in the doorway, and for a half a breem, it looked as though the two femmes were winning. But for every Elite Guard member falling back, or in one case, down the hatch to land at their feet, another took its place. The green mech still hadn't thrown himself into the action, and Chromia poked the fallen mech with her pede, looking for any sign that it was a hologram. If it was, it was too good for her to tell. 

A red mech peered over the edge, and quickly dodged the two shots aimed at his helm. A wrenching noise distracted the three femmes in the tunnel and then more light poured into the space. An enormous mech had wrenched the rest of the hatch off its hinges, considerably widening the space the opposing mechs had to shoot down at the femmes. 

And then, Chromia's worst fear nearly smacked her in the faceplate. A grenade dropped from high, bouncing next to her pede, missing the mech on the floor. Without hesitating, she dropped her weapon and threw one arm around Elita, and the other around Windlight. Both femmes were much smaller than she, and they would be blown away in moments. At least this way, Chromia might be greeted by Primus as a warrior and protector. 

For several long clicks, the femmes huddled together on the floor, tired systems whirring in the relative darkness. Windlight shivered, her fear permeating the room. Elita made optic contact, her hand squeezing Chromia's arm.

Instead of a "boom," all three femmes heard a hissing coming from where the grenade had been dropped. A light green mist swarmed the bunker, reaching out almost like fingers. Tendrils reaching out, searching for them. It was too late to move. In her panic, Chromia had thrown all three femmes to the ground in a mass of tangled limbs. There was no way they could move quickly enough to get away. Even if they could, what was the point? Chemical weapons had a reputation to uphold. Damn those Autobots. 

As the mist reached the femmes on the floor, tendrils snaked under plating, tickling their protoforms. Everywhere it touched went offline. Her pedes shut down, followed by her legs until her optics offlined. For several long moments, all she could do was access the happiest memories in her processor. There were only a few, which was just fine...she only had a few moments to spare before her processor shut down completely.


	5. White Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get dark. Rape, graphic torture, Dark!Prime. Please proceed with extreme caution - this is not going to get any lighter. Only darker. Please heed the tags.

Waking up cold was not a surprise. Waking up on her knees with her hands tied behind her back was. Elita wanted to wriggle her fingers, but her optics and audios had been disabled by a medical code; wriggling her fingers could prematurely alert her captures that she was online. Right now, she needed to vent and calm herself before they got drop on her yet again. 

She tried calling Chromia and Huntbringer over her internal comm system. Only empty static crackled back at her. Keeping her fear in check, Elita ignored the cold radiating up from her knees and sought out any heat signatures around her. There was no heat; nothing to tell her if she was being kept alone or with the others. It was always possible that the same Bot who turned off her audios and optics had somehow tampered her other senses. 

The sensory depravation was close to torture. She had no idea how long she had been on her knees, and no way to clock the passing time now that she was online. Her entire heads up display had been deactivated, along with her chronometer. Just as she settled her aft on her heels, a light breeze brushed over her plating. The rose colored femme froze, extending her senses as far as possible. Maybe her shifting had caused the air to stir. Maybe there was someone in here with her after all. 

She wriggled her fingers just slightly. Nothing moved around her. The air was still once more. If there was someone around her, they had to know she was online now. So she began testing her bonds, finding that a professional had secured her wrists - not only were they tight enough to disallow motion, they were loose enough to tease her with thoughts of freedom. After her wrists began to ache, she focused on her ankles. She could spread them marginally wider and closer, but the weight shifting to her knees was excruciatingly painful. A pained moan escaped her vocals. Her captors would definitely know she was awake by now, but at least she knew that she'd been on her knees for at least several joors. 

Suddenly there was heat next to her chassis and her audios came online. The noise around her was deafening; the screech of plating on plating, mixing with the anguished cries of her team - her family. Elita rose off her aft, but there was no way she could stand with her hands and feet bound. Instead she was forced to listen to the sounds of torture echo around her, not knowing who was being hurt. By the enormity of the sound, it was clear that it was multiple Bots. 

"Ah! Our esteemed guest has finally joined us!" The Prime's deep timbre drowned out the shouts and screams around her. His voice was so deep and so close to her chassis that she could feel it reverberate in her mechanics. "Go ahead, Jazz, I want her to see what happens to those miscreants who disobey my directives."

That whisper of air hit her plating once more, the heat settling nearby. Her optics onlined more slowly than her audios, allowing her time to adjust to the bright lights. She was indeed in a large chamber, gilded beautfifully, with black stone floors shot through with white. But the Bots inhabiting the room made her wish she could turn her optics back off, despite the opulence.

The sheer amount of energon on the floor was enough to make her tank roil. Had there been anything inside of them, she would have vomited within moments. Luckily for her, they were completely empty and had been for quite some time. On the other hand, if they had been full, she would have been able to expel her contents into the foot of the Prime himself. That would serve him right. The Mad Prime was standing only a few feet away from her, holding the homemade energy shock stick that Windlight had been wielding during their failed raid. Fear gripped her spark. The adults could all handle the torture and go back to Primus without guilt - but the younglings were her direct responsibility. A quick glance around them confirmed that none of the younglings or - Primus help her - Bumblebee was to be found. 

"What the pit did you do to Windlight and Huntbringer, you Monster?" Her scream echoed across the chamber, distracting all those currently ripping, whipping and tearing into her mechs and femmes. All helms rose as one unit, turning to stare at her. The weight of those optics - both her family and their tormentors - fell upon her bound form. The Prime twirled the tiny energy weapon in his huge hand. Windlight had been a petite femme, and hadn't finished growing yet. Not that they ever had the energon for any of the younglings to grow large and strong. Most had stunted growth due to lack of medical care and energy. But the Prime's battle scarred hand made the shock stick look like a sparkling's toy. (Which was a half truth.)

The huge mech strode closer, and his battlemask did not allow Elita to immediately discern the mech's emotional state. When he dropped into a crouch a mere inch from her faceplate, Elita's resolve began to falter. She was the leader of this group and considered them family. But looking into those deep blue optics made her shiver. This mech was second only to Primus himself. Or, at least, the general public thought so. What on Cybertron could she do in the face of such power? 

The Prime was so close that she could feel him - his heat, his venting, his cooling fans. The crackling of the shock stick in his hand was also on her periphery, where it still rested in his hand. His hands were resting on his knees, giving him an aura of sheer dominance. Only the leader, the dominant, of a group like this could look so relaxed amidst the torture and spilled energon. These mechs lived for the torture, for the brutality. Yet this mech turned his back to them, seemingly uncaring. And to Elita, it was the most frightening display of power she had ever seen. Living on the fringes of society made her hyper aware of body language. Mechs could speak lies, but their bodies often told something completely different.

His optics shone in her faceplate, locking onto her own as though he was forcing her to look at him, even though he did not touch her. For a few moments, they had a conversation held through sight only. It was odd, to communicate so effortlessly with another being without the use of words. His optics challenged her to scream at him again, to show him that he was nothing more than a mech to her. They taunted her when she tried to look over his shoulder, narrowing slightly. He had called her out using nothing more than his body and optics. And she had submitted to his authority just as easily. Embarrassment flooded her processor; she should be stronger than this. Her family needed her to be strong. Even in submission. 

"They're sound asleep in the younglings quarters downstairs. That little yellow fellow is in a nursery with round the clock supervision. My medics tell me that he is much too small for his age. The fuel he was being given was not of quality or quantity." His voice was intoxicating from this distance. His battle mask vibrated slightly as he spoke. His optics bore into hers in an overt display of anger and domination. His voice rose slightly and his battle armor flared, "This is why I demand that every Bot under my rule live in one of the many cities under Autobot rule. There are outreach programs for the poor. Many of which are in place to protect tiny mechlings and femlings from being malnourished by a lot of psychotic ingrates." 

A small snort escaped. She hadn't meant to let it out. Only to think it. But between the Prime's relaxing heat and the pain in her knees, she was too distracted to keep it wholly in. Prime, who had turned his helm in order to speak to the room at large, turned to face her once more. His venting was increasing in temperature. She didn't need a heads up display to figure that out.   
Her mouth opened. Please, Primus, no. Stop. Speaking to him was only going to make this worse. 

"You think we're psychotic? Look around you! These mechs and femmes have done nothing to you. You and your empire have the energon to spare, you don't give a slag about the fuel. You care that a few Bots don't want to live under your rule," She sucked in a huge vent, getting another blast of hot air from the Prime. Was he leaning closer? "This is why we don't want to live under your rule, you dumb aft. Any little imagined slight against you and you start acting like a mad mech. We've all seen your televised torture sessions. We've seen you gift living beings to other living beings. Your depravity knows no bounds!"

"You're right," the Prime answered softly, reaching a hand out and cradling her faceplate in his hand. The shock stick in his other hand traced her thigh softly, though it was turned off. That stick was designed to stun Bots, not kill, but it still wouldn't be very fun. Especially not as it crept up her thigh towards her crotchplate. "I don't have any boundaries. I give Bots to my loyals because I OWN ALL OF YOU." He stood, grabbing Elita by the throat and hauling her off the ground. The shock stick came to life, electrocuting her plating. She went ridged, a scream tearing though her throat, choked slightly by his hand. 

"I shelter everyone on this damnable planet! I fight the Quintessons and all the other fraggers who dare to lay claim! I spend all my orns worrying about all those under my reign. I am responsible for making sure that all of you are fed, have shelter and won't die from an insecticon invasion. Do you understand how many insecticons are culled on the borders each vorn?" While the Prime rambled on and on, his men dove back into their work, pulling and tearing at her mechs and femmes, teasing them into overloads only to cause them pain on the rebound. 

Prime jabbed her directly above her spark chamber with the stick and her optics shorted out. She let her helm go completely limp, rolling to the left in Prime's grasp and rebooted her optics. Chromia was on the floor only a few steps away, and a huge red mech was loudly and obnoxiously enjoying her mouth as the blue femme choked on his spike. That was no surprise. Elita and Chromia had been lovers, and the blue femme had confessed that she'd never taken enough of a liking to a mech to learn to suck spike, and most femmes preferred valve play. 

Somewhere in the back of her processor, she knew that the Prime was still speaking to her. To the room at large. But she couldn't process the information. The buzz of electricity in her systems was cracking, dancing over her circuits and causing misfires. The worst part of electricity on plating was that all of a Bot's circuits were targeted, whether they were pain or pleasure nodes. So in between the excruciating pain, little tingles of pure pleasure fired through her body. Her valve was producing lubricant even as her joints cracked and stiffened in the purest of pain. 

The Mad Prime was so engrossed in his speech that he had stopped shocking her. Instead, she hung limply in his grasp, trying hard to cool her rapidly overheating circuits. Venting was all but impossible, and every vent she was able to process was stiflingly hot. Dimly, she knew that the silver Bot was dancing around the edges of her vision, overseeing the mechs torturing her family. Occasionally he barked an order or suggestion at one of them. 

The hand around her intake tightened and shook her violently. She clattered to the floor, unable to break the fall with her hands and pedes bound. She clearly heard the snap of a line and the sound of metal crumpling. She must have fallen poorly - the sensors in her left knee screamed in pain, any previous pleasure receding. 

The Prime's large pedes wove in front of her optics, his baritone still ringing throughout the room. Elita turned off her optics, trying to find some respite from this new hell she had found herself in. The cold of the floor was helping to clear her foggy processor. The pain of her injuries pushed to the forefront of her consciousness. She was no stranger to physical pain. That she could handle. But the sounds of her family being tortured brought about a new pain - one that she could not easily shut out. 

All around her she could hear plating buckle, energon lines tearing. The sounds of someone towards the back of the room purging onto the floor. The crackle and snap of an energon whip resonated throughout the hall. The squishing sound of abused valves floated through the room at odd intervals, followed closely by the dominant noises of the mechs enjoying their pleasures. 

And the smell. By Primus, the smell. The clean, almost floral smell of internal lubricant brought about a carnal pleasure; Elita was no stranger to the smell of an excited valve. But the smell was tainted with energon. Not the smell of clean, processed energon. The smell of regurgitated energon. Old, stale energon. 

"I don't think so, little one," a sensuous tenor voice crooned into her audio, "You need to see what you've done to our Prime." A hand settled on the back of her helm, prying the cover off her medical port. The mech entered her systems like he spoke, softly and dangerously. Her optics onlined. The mech behind her disengaged just as easily, showing his practice with such a move. Only medics were supposed to be able to access another's systems with such ease, and they had to present proper authentication. A shiver slid through her. The mechs under the Mad Prime were not to be trifled with. 

Two large red pedes entered her field of vision, stepping too close to her helm for comfort. She tried to turn away, but the most she managed was a desperate wriggle. Prime's dark chuckle resonated through her, her aching shoulders scraping against the smooth flooring. Hydraulics hissed, and Prime lowered himself down yet again, leaning over her prostrate form. The shock stick had been abandoned, his hands empty. 

Her desperation increased exponentially as he reached a hand out towards her. Whatever this Prime meant to do, he was out to cause as much physical and emotional pain as possible. When his hand landed on her helm, Elita looked up into his optics. Maybe he was a soulless killing machine, but at least looking him in the optics would help communicate her disgust when words and glyphs simply wouldn't convey a strong enough message. 

His deep blue optics held her complete attention. He was so worked up that a small area of white had appeared around the edges. But there was so much more to them, from the deep blue middle to the lighter color right in the center. She held his gaze steadfastly. These were the optics of a mech. Just a mech. A collection of metal, a T-cog and a spark. That's all. 

Except...that wasn't all. There was something more to him. Just as the thought crossed her processor, small tendrils of light drew her attention downwards. All around his chassis and chest plates, pure white light danced and wriggled, reaching out towards her. She tried to reach out to the light - it was calling to her, beckoning her closer. It wanted to touch her, to know her. And she wanted it to do so. No. She needed it to do so. She wanted to feel the light, to give herself over to it. 

When the Mad Prime leaned over her further, dipping his chest plates towards her own, Elita spread her shoulders, willing her chest plates to open to him. She needed this. When they wouldn't open, she realized that all her auxiliary systems were locked. She couldn't open her spark without the little silver bot's override. A small moan of disappointment tried to escape. Her vocals were far too distorted, thanks to the Prime's rough treatment. But his optics had changed. They were deeper, darker. He wanted her, too. Carnal lust darkened them, the edge of madness driving the white around his optics inward, taking up more of his gaze.

Distantly, she realized that a red and white Bot had joined the smaller silver one, and they were both standing much too close to her. And then, everything went blissfully dark. Maybe the lights had taken her to Primus. A small smile graced her faceplates. Primus had best be ready for her.


	6. Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, please leave a Kudos or a comment. Thanks to all who have left kudos and comments. I really appreciate the motivation.
> 
> Please drop me a line with constructive criticism. I'm always open to such. 
> 
> Graphic torture in this chapter. Plot is beginning to thicken and develop. Also, Jazz is disgusting and likes to leave his transfluid on everyone he 'interrogates.' Please proceed with caution.

"What the ever loving frag just happened?" The medic howled, wrench grasped tightly in his hand, brandishing it around the room. "One moment, everything was completely fine. Prime was in control. The next, he's opening his fragging chest plates in the middle of the room like some half clocked insecticon in heat!"

Jazz stepped forward, his hands held out in front of him. Prowl stiffened beside him, ready to defend his mate if need be. With the Hatchet, one could never be too careful. There was a reason he had survived a succession of Primes, and it wasn’t because he was a soft and caring mech. 

"Look, Ratch, I was there the whole time. The mech was fine. Impassioned, a little worked up, but fine. He wasn't even involved in anything. Mostly just watching, threatening and monologuing. He dropped the little red femme to the ground and followed her down after a few kliks. Then the Matrix came on, easy as can be." Jazz stepped back into Prowl's field, wanting the safety of his mate's arms, but settling for his presence.

"Well, what did she do? She had to have done something to get him to that state! Prime doesn't go around opening himself to anyone he's torturing." The medic seethed, banging the wrench on the nearest bench. At the sound, the room collectively jumped. 

"It's a good thing Jazz called me when he did. Otherwise, we'd have another damnable Prime Consort on our hands. You younglings might not remember that slag, but I do! Sentinel was completely fragging useless for nearly a vorn. And another femme for Primus' sake. Do any of you know how much slagging work it is to keep a femme in good condition? A strong breeze can practically offline them!" 

The other mechs simply nodded; it was better to let the medic vent. He was an excitable mech at the best of times, but at the worst of times he was a harbinger of death. Or at least a lot of pain.

"Where are they?" Prowl asked, his bond mate close to his side. Prowl would never admit it aloud, but he was fearful for Jazz. When Prime got into moods like this, he would often call on Jazz for a rough interface session. And Jazz liked it rough, but when he came home to Prowl, he was often battered and scared. Whatever happens in the Prime's berth room is enough to unsettle a mech like Jazz. And that was a frightening proposition. 

"I have him sedated. He's resting in his berth with that damnable femme." Ratchet said, leaning heavily on the medical berth behind him. He didn't seem to mind that it was covered in the life fluids of a deceased mech. 

"You put the two of them together?" Ironhide barked, taking a step towards Ratchet. "Are you insane, Medic?"

"Not that femme you idiot! Bladespark is with him. The little red femme is in the brig with the blue one. Speaking of which, Ironhide, the next time you want to destroy a femme's valve, take her to another medic for a fix. Femme valves are delicate. Took me a slagging joor to fix her up."

Ironhide looked a little sheepish. "I liked her. A lot. She's spunky. And her valve. By Primus, it was the best valve I've had in vorns." He raised a hand to scratch at the back of his helm. He was a little rough on the femme, come to think of it. But she had been too perfect. As soon as he'd hardlined her, he'd known she was one he wanted to keep. Pit she'd been mad. But not at him. She liked the interface, liked not having any power, and she loved the overloads. No, she was mad that she couldn't save the little red femme from her fate. Maybe he'd ask Prime if he could keep her. Woo her, even. What was the point of having credits and being bodyguard to the Prime if he couldn't spend any credits or time on a beautiful, feisty femme. And he did want sparklings one orn. Primus knew he wasn’t getting any younger.

"Has anyone interviewed the little red femme?" Jazz spoke up, still well within reach of his bonded. Prowl's consciousness slid across their bond, feeling the smaller mech's soul. Jazz pushed comfort and confidence over the bond. Worrying was sweet and all, but the world they lived in was too hard and fast for that kind of thing. 

"No need. She was on medical lockdown. I have all her readings. She was barely functional.” Ratchet said, idly tracing a few glyphs in the mech fluid next to his hand. "Her readings were within normal parameters for one as stressed as she was. She calmed considerably when the Matrix integrated with Prime. Stabilized, even."

"So what does it mean?" Jazz asked the medic, noting that the older mech was tracing the glyph for "suffering" in the fluid. "What is our next step?"

"We call Bladespark. She will at least be able to tell us what happened when Sentinel took her." Prowl stated sharply, straightening and lifting his door wings. "I will set up a meeting in the war room."

"Let me have a crack at her first, Prowler. Maybe she's hiding something." Jazz said, placing a hand on his mate's forearm and squeezing. 

Prowl nodded. "You may have her for one orn. And one orn only. Then we call Bladespark."

XxxxxxxxxX

"She's not special at all." Jazz announced, sliding into the anteroom and leaning against the table. "She's answered all of my questions honestly. Even the ones that make most full grown mechs cry. She's a nothing. A nobody." 

Collectively, the mechs all looked through the one-way glass, looking towards the small red femme chained to the wall. She was a mess. Lubricant dropped down her face, energon dropped from several cuts along her helm and chassis. Transfluid splattered on her stomach plating - courtesy of Jazz, of course. Her helm hung low, defeated at least for the moment.

"Nothing to indicate why the Matrix responded?" Ultra Magnus asked quietly from his seat at the window ledge. He had been called in to deal with all the Prime's duties while Prime was on temporary medical leave; Ratchet still had him sedated. For the fourth orn in a row.

"Doubt me, Mags?" Jazz challenged, lifting his helm towards the much larger mech, visor flashing. Magnus smiled slightly, and held up a pacifying hand.

"I think you're the best in your field, Jazz. You're the best at protecting the Prime through Special Operations. You're used to getting answers out of guilty mechs. This femme isn't guilty of anything. She's a criminal, that's true, but she's not a mastermind. She's just a femme trying to make a life for herself," Magnus looked thoughtfully at the small femme in front of him. She was pulling against her restraints, trying to wriggle out of the cuffs above her helm. "You're looking for a confession. She has nothing to confess. We need to get to know her."

"And how do you propose we do that? It's not like we've already done any damage to her. Oh, wait...we've only tortured her and violated her in a number of ways since she's been here. And done the same to her band of miscreants." Ratchet barked, taking a sip from his morning's energon ration. He looked pointedly at Jazz as he spoke, ignoring Prowl's dark growl. 

"Call Bladespark. She may have an idea that we haven't thought of yet. She's a femme. She has a softer touch than we do. And we know that she has Prime's best interests at spark." Prowl spoke quietly, door wings in a neutral position towards the medic. 

"I've already called her. She'll be here any moment." Magnus said, standing and twisting his torso. A series of cracks and pops resounded through the room, reminding the mechs gathered together that they had been pulling long shifts watching over this femme and the Prime. To be honest, they were drained. 

The door slid open, admitting Sentinel Prime's bonded. As Prime Consort, she had been utterly gorgeous, lusted after by mechs and femmes alike. Now, she looked like a worn piece of art. Once beautiful, desired, but now left to oxidize and rot under the eyes of the universe. But she had a back strut of pure steel, keeping her tall and proud under their everlasting scrutiny. 

She glided through the room, stopping next to Ultra Magnus at the window. She hummed quietly, peering at the other femme's bloodied faceplate.

"I can see you've extended her the hospitality inherent to the Prime's estate," she grinned wryly, looking Jazz in the visor with mirth dancing over her features. 

"I had to make sure that she's not a threat to our current Prime, Consort," Jazz answered, bowing at the waist and showing her his fangs with a smile. "Besides, you know I can't help myself. When I see a little femme getting cozy with the Prime, I always put my best pede forward."

"I may not be the Prime Consort for much longer, darling. And yes, you do leave an impression," She answered, grinning back at the silver mech. "Though, I would encourage you to remember that the Prime Consort has the power to make all of your lives miserable. My reign with Sentinel was much too short, but a fully established Consort can be just as ferocious as the Prime she serves."

The mechs in the room shifted, uncomfortable with her declaration. The Prime Consort always faced opposition at first. There were always people who would be upset that someone else had managed to garner the attention of the Prime. And there were those who thought they could manipulate the Consort to gain favor. It was a balancing act for those looking to garner the favor of the Prime. 

"Open the door. I want to see her." Bladespark crossed to wait in front of the door, waiting for Jazz to open the door to his interrogation room. Jazz, ever the gentlemech, bowed as the door slid open at his command. At the noise, the femme jerked in the chains, throwing her helm back to growl at the pair. 

"She's all yours," Jazz smirked as the door closed behind her. Bladespark wasted no time in crossing the room and getting a closer look at the femme hanging from the ceiling. Jazz had great taste in restraints, and knew how to use them. This little femme had been chained to the ceiling, but her pedes were chained to the wall behind her, leaving her back slightly arched, her stomach plating bowing out towards her tormentor. Her helm and sensitive stomach plating open and vulnerable to attack.

"What's your designation, little one?" Bladespark asked, keeping her tone low and soothing. She needed this new femme to trust her. To see her as an island of calm and protection amongst all these violent mechs. If Prime did end up bonding to her, there was going to be much to teach her and very little time. A little trust and solace in the beginning could pay off dividends in the end. 

"Go slag yourself!" The little femme snapped, tugging the chains with renewed vigor. Fierce blue optics met cool, calm pools of aqua. 

"I've never heard that designation. Your carrier must have been quite creative," Bladespark chuckled, "Or perhaps your sire just wrote down the first thing your carrier screamed during your delivery."

The red femme stopped struggling and looked pensive for a moment. Confusion flitted across her faceplate and she looked Bladespark up and down, taking stock of the femme in front of her. 

"What is this slag? Are we playing good enforcer and bad enforcer?" She spat, relaxing into the chains, spitting a bit of energon onto the ground in front of her. Many of the cuts were already healing thanks to her repair nanites. Ratchet must have given her some good medial grade energon if she was healing so quickly. 

"I'm no enforcer, sweetspark. My designation is Bladespark. I was Prime Consort to Sentinel Prime." She drew herself up, willing a little more fire into her spark and her optics. She had been a great femme, once upon a time. Fierce, vivacious, and full of life. Just like the femme in front of her. 

"I didn't know Sentinel had taken a Consort," the smaller femme looked up at her, helm cocked to one side. "You're lying. There was no ceremony. That kind of slag is telecast. Bots eat that scrap up."

"That is true. We kept our relationship as quiet as possible. The temple priests rejected our bond. Sentinel was in such a hurry to claim me that he sullied me before we were able to check the untouched state of my spark. Tell me, youngling, are you untouched? Is your spark untouched?" Bladespark had tilted her helm down to be more or less level with the femme. After her physical torment, a little emotional torment might throw her over the edge. Get her to break down and spill everything. "Have you ever had a mate? What about that little blue thing? She seemed awfully attached to you. Did she spike you? Did she spill her transfluid inside of your tank, like you were just a five shanix whore?" 

At that, the red femmes helm dropped slightly. Ah. Bladepark had managed to hit a nerve with the blue femme. 

"The council and temple do not care about valves, little one. Even if they push it, we can always clean you out and put a new seal on you. No one would be any the wiser," Bladespark paused, stepping closer and running a light finger along the femme's helm. "Transfluid can be washed out of valves. But sparks are sacred. None can touch your spark except your Prime."

"My spark is untouched." The little femme announced, looking almost abashedly at the wall to her left. Bladespark nodded, continuing her exploration of the younger femme’s body, hands gliding down her chestplates. Her chassis was shapely, becoming of a young femme. Her waist was narrow, but solidly built. Her hips were wide, indicating that this little fem would have an easier time than most building protoforms. 

“I see that Jazz had a little fun with you,” Bladespark said, trailing her fingertips through the congealing pinkish transfluid on her stomach plating. She held up some of the fluid to drip off her finger and onto the ground, letting the rose femme watch. “You’ll have to excuse him, dear. He’s only a mech, after all. They all seem to think that a little transfluid is all it takes to make a femme break down and cry. Like we aren’t used to being covered in it all day long.” At that, the little femme in the chains recoiled, her faceplate showing disgust.

“Surely you’ve had transfluid in your tanks?” Bladspark asked, keeping her tone as smooth and calm as possible. “Wildling groups are known for being a little wild. All of you sleeping together, in one chamber. Surely your mechs cannot control themselves. They are almost all bigger than you, after all.”

“Frag. You. You don’t know anything about us or how we live.” Fire snapped through her gaze, ignoring the cold transfluid seeping into her plating and sliding down towards her panel. It was enough to make her heave. 

“No. I don’t. And further, I do not care. I need answers, little one. If I don’t get them, the mechs will. Or worse yet, the Council will. Work with me; I am your best bet.” Bladespark answered, grabbing a cloth from her subspace and smoothing it over the younger femme’s stomach plating, wiping the transfluid globs off. “Let’s get you cleaned up and refueled. Then we can speak somewhere a little more private and a lot more comfortable.”


	7. Into the Matrix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take a trip down memory lane into the Matrix. Some questions are answered, more are asked. Sentinel gets laid. It's a good time for all.

"That pit spawned medic needs to be put in his place. Thinking he can drug a Prime whenever he pleases. I would string him up and allow him to remember who ordained his functioning in the first place." Sentinel Prime's regal baritone seeped into his consciousness, startling Optimus into onlining his optics. It seemed as though the Matrix had allowed Sentinel to contact him. The relic was a living connection to the past Primes, and as such, often allowed the former bearers to seek out current holder. Often times, it was jarring and unpleasant for the mech who was living, but the dead mechs felt no sympathy for the current Prime.

The room Setinel had chosen for their meeting was intimately familiar to both mechs. The washracks of the Prime were dimly lit and sensuous, the corners of the room seemed to bleed into one another, leaving plenty of darkened spaces for Consorts and pleasurebots alike to dwell. Optimus noted that the room was the much the same as his current configuration, but he had taken down the downright vulgar painting hanging above the mirror. Sentinel kept it up in his version of the room. Both Primes were audio deep in the liquid heat of the main bath, not even close to touching; the bath was meant for five or six mechs of their size.

"I agree, but why did you feel the need to pull me in? Usually you send me messages, but never go to such lengths to speak face to face." Optimus stated, spreading his arms onto behind him, completely at ease with his mentor. Deactivated or not, Sentinel's consciousness was still very much alive through the Matrix. Though the fact that Sentinel could do no lasting physical damage to him was welcome – the mech was many times larger than he. 

"This is going to be an awkward enough conversation without dealing with misinterpretations," Sentinel grinned at him, fangs flashing in the dim light. "I would have thought you'd be happy to see me, youngling. It's been a long time."

"I was under the impression that the Matrix had little sense of time." Optimus stated, allowing his battle mask to fall open and retract, rolling his helm back to rest on the edge of the sunken oil tub. Bliss flowed through to his very spark. Sentinel had no true corporeal form, so there was no harm in exposing the delicate sensors of his neck plating. 

"The Matrix doesn't. I do." The giant replied, mimicking Optimus' pose in the oil. "And I want my damn Consort back." 

Optimus chuckled, before relying, "She seems to be quite content to stay here and fuck me. She likes my technique. Or, at least, she seems to enjoy begging me not to stop." Optimus’ chuckle was drowned by Sentinel's growl. 

"I had her first, youngling. She used to beg me to fill her with transfluid, and after I did, she would send me video of it leaking out from her panel while I was in meetings. She would let it drip onto her fingers and then stuff them back up into her valve. I would often walk in on her wrist deep afterwards." Optimus' engineers gave a low whine at the imagery, lubricant flooding his mouth and coating his glossa. Sentinel went quiet, his hips shifting slightly under the thick oil, obviously reliving some of those memory files. 

"Not that this isn't more pleasant than being drugged into a fitful recharge…" Optimus trailed off, knowing his mentor would get back on track soon enough, tilting his helm back down to look his predecessor in the optics. Sentinel's own optics were a shade too dark, speaking to the golden mech's apparent arousal. Optimus held back another chuckle. Sentinel was more than capable of holding an intelligent conversation while hopelessly aroused. Primus knew he and Optimus had spoken more than once while Bladespark rode Sentinel's spike or swallowed him down. 

"Because I had the courtesy of having this conversation with my mentor face to face. It was unsettling then,” He took a deep vent, billowing steam in the humidity of the room. “I like you, sparkling. I want you to have the same chance I did. Maybe you won’t frag it up." Sentinel grimaced, optics offlining. Optimus smirked, knowing that admitting his feelings had been almost impossible for the elder mech. Maybe the Matrix had softened him in his old age.

"Nova had several consorts. I'm sure you know. His were more playthings than true consorts. They warmed his berth, but they did little else. The council became lax in their view of companions. None of his consorts were required to stand before the council in a formal capacity. Nova had no want of a true mate. He was happy with his harem." Sentinel groaned and sink further into the oil, the hot liquid lapping at his audios. 

"When I was selected as the Heir Apparent, I had deeper needs than Nova. I wanted someone more akin to a true Consort. I needed someone to take the weight off my spark. Someone I could trust implicitly. I had no desire to have security leaks like Nova. Though, between us, Nova loved executing, even those he kept in his berth. He liked holding lives in his servos."

"So do I," Optimus intoned flatly, gently rebuking the elder mech. "I always enjoy submission."

Sentinel raised his helm, optics coming online with a look of scathing disdain. "All Primes are dominant creatures, youngling. I enjoyed submission just as much as Nova and just as much as you. You, however, seem to be an interesting mixture of myself and Nova. You like causing pain, and I would have thought you'd be content with a harem. And yet..." The gold mech trailed off, optics looking through Optimus, rather than at him. "You chose that one femme. Maybe not consciously, but the Matrix knew. It tried to help you claim her."

Optimus narrowed his optics at the other mech. Of course Sentinel knew what had happened. Living in the Matrix probably gave the mechs within it advance warning of what was going to happen. Not that the relic could tell the future directly, but from what he had gathered from his limited interactions with Sentinel, the device knew more than most. 

"What really happened with you and Bladespark?" Optimus asked, pinning Sentinel with his optics. He and Bladespark had a few tumbles in the berth, but the elder femme had never unlocked her chest plates in his presence, nor given him any false hope that she was anything but utterly devoted to the golden Prime. 

"I took her. I don't know what came over me. Well...now I do, of course. But the first time I saw her, I had to have her. She was just a servant. She was never trained to be a consort or even a pleasurebot. She was just supposed to serve the energon and leave the party. The entire High Council was there," the mech shuddered, deep in a memory recall. "Maybe it would be best if I showed you."

There was no physical connection necessary to share memories within the depths of the Matrix. Sentinel was in control here, having a more visceral connection with the relic than Optimus. One moment, they were in the washracks, the next, in a grand ballroom. Optimus did not recognize this room - it must be a room inside a noble's home, instead of within the Citadel of the Prime. 

Sentinel was directly in front of him, looking younger, more gangly and unsure of himself. The mech had yet to truly grow into his plating, and his servos and pedes looked far too large. Optimus couldn't help the snort that escaped him. It was truly odd to see his mentor so much like he saw himself. Gangly, unsure, young, and insecure. Given what Sentinel looked like at the end of his life, Optimus had hope that he too would grow into his own. 

Many of the mecha in the room around them were merely blurs, as Sentinel's processors had purged the specifics of the data, leaving a hazy quality about them. But when the scene shifted to the doorway, Bladespark couldn't have been clearer than if she was actually in the room with them. 

She was stunning. Her dark black paint job notated her as a servant, meant to blend into the dark corners of her master’s house, never seen but always ready to serve. She slipped into the room, a single pitcher of high grade held in a small servo. She stopped in front of her master first, offering him the dark violet liquid. When the other mech waved an uncaring dismal to the femme, she turned and looked towards them. As the highest ranking mech in the room, the Prime would have been the next to be served. Sentinel, sitting on the settee next to Optimus, took in a sharp vent. 

Bladespark's optics were submissively downcast, looking at a spot between his throat and his chest plates. Optimus felt Sentinel's field flare with desire. Bladespark bowed to him, barely an inclination of her helm, but it was enough. Sentinel raised his glass, allowing the femme to pour some of the liquid into the cup. 

Then, she simply disappeared into the crowd. Sentinel looked for her, but with the help of her dark paintjob in the dim room, she flitted through the crowd like a sprite. His anger started building, seeming to roll off his frame in waves. Mechs and femmes alike stood far away from him, sensing that the new Matrix bearer was perturbed about something. Given the previous Prime’s explosive outbursts, and the bloodshed that accompanied, no one seemed keen to be the first in line for the potential slaughter. 

The memory blurred, colors mixing together and the room melting away. Optimus stopped venting for a long moment, willing his knee joints to stay steady. A hallway took its place, dark and seemingly unending. Bladespark was near the middle, walking with her backplates turned towards them both. 

Sentinel jumped forward, catching the femme’s shoulder with one large servo, the other pushing against her hip plating. The younger Bladespark spun towards them, pitcher shattering into hundreds of tiny crystal fragments as it fell from her numb fingers. The cost of the pitcher was enormous; it looked as though it was hand carved and probably imported from Crystal City, but neither of the mecha gave it a second glance. 

“Who are you?” Sentinel’s baritone cut through the memory smoothly, with extreme clarity. This part of the memory was obviously important enough to keep in active storage. “What is your function within this house?” He backed her into a wall, using his bulk to trap her against the smooth and cold wall. The painting behind the femme dented slightly as she was forced to lean into it for support.

“Milord, I am Bladespark. Free servant to Master Downspout,” Bladepark replied, her voice trembling with unknown emotion, either fear or arousal, perhaps a combination of both. Her servos shook slightly where they rested, trapped between her stomach plating and Sentinel’s. 

“Not anymore, Bladespark. You know who I am?” The femme nodded, of course she knew who he was. Practically the entirety of Cybertron had watched his coronation ceremony not a decacycle prior. “Look at me, beautiful femme.” Sentinel locked optics with her, deciding his next steps. 

It didn’t take long. Their height differences made it very easy for Bladespark’s trembling servo to accidently brush the very top of Sentinel’s crotch plate. The golden mech growled, the noise echoing down the hallway. 

He shifted his weight to pin the femme more firmly to the wall, denting the formal portrait behind her beyond recognition, figures stretched and distorted. One large servo quickly gathered both her hands, pinning them above her helm. When his crotch plating made contact with her own, her optics dimmed several shades, energy rerouting to more important areas. Her venting picked up, desperate to cool her internal mechanisms and keep her tubing from melting. Whatever was happening inside her processor, it was obvious that Sentinel was effecting her on a base level just as much as she was effecting him.

One kiss, then another. Sentinel gently ground his hot spike covering against her valve plating, mimicking the act of love making, not fragging. Their glossa entwined, oral lubricants glistening in the soft light. Neither seemed to be at all aware nor concerned that they were in an empty hallway outside of a very lively party with some of the most important mecha on Cybertron in attendance. 

Sentinel released his large spike, the black and gold length heavily ridged, and more than ready for the task of making the small femme inexplicably his. He dropped his other servo down to her chassis, trailing over her thin, dark plating, breaking the kiss. His helm dipped, teasing the hydraulics of her neck plating, biting gently and soothing the bitten spots with his glossa. The femme beneath him writhed, grinding her own crotch plating against him, caught up in the moment of complete passion. 

One finger, easily half the width of her own wrist, rubbed at the thin plating covering her valve. Bladespark cried out, the sound echoing down the hallway, much louder than Sentinel’s initial growl. A soft warning nip from Sentinel quieted the femme, as her valve cover slid back. She must have been more than slightly excited by the situation, lubricant was glistening at her entrance. Optimus’ glossa begged him to get on his knees and taste for himself, and if this had been real in any way, he may have indulged. Instead, he resigned himself to watching this memory all the way through to its end. 

Sentinel’s finger slid into her valve, encountering no barriers. Bladespark had not been an untouched femme the first time Sentinel had taken her. Interesting. The Council usually demanded that a true Consort be untouched in both spark and valve. Sentinel, at least, did not seem to find her lack of seal to be disturbing, and crooked his finger inside her valve, lightly stimulating the nodes seated inside. Bladespark tossed her dark helm back, but bit back her cry of ecstasy, heeding Sentinel’s earlier warning bite. 

Wasting no more time, the helm of his spike dripping fluid, Sentinel sheathed himself to the hilt inside his future Consort. He was a large mech, certainly rivaling Optimus in length and girth, maybe even a little larger. Bladespark dropped her helm to his shoulder guard, pressing her forehelm into the metal there, holding her body completely still. To Optimus’ surprise, his mentor held himself still inside her, content to be sheathed. 

When she relaxed a few moments later, Sentinel pressed her more firmly into the wall and took her with vigor. Their kisses were quiet in the public corridor, but the sounds of their venting growing louder by the klik. After about a breem of ecstasy, Sentinel threw his helm back, unable to hold back his groan of pleasure as he overloaded, spilling his fluid deep into the femme’s valve. Bladespark overloaded a mere moment later, much quieter and subdued in her pleasure. Her legs tightened and released around his backplates. Optimus kept his smirk to himself. She still overloaded the exact same way with him. 

“Comm your master. Tell him I wish to meet with him here right now. I will pay your fee, and your contract will be transferred to me. Afterwards, you will gather your belongings, and we will adjorn to the Citadel.” Sentinel murmured in her audio, licking a line up her back-swept chevron.

Once again, the room melted. Both mechs were once again in the oil bath, in the same positions as before. Sentinel, however, looked like someone had lubricated in his energon goodies.

“I want her back. Now. She stayed behind to help you find a suitable consort. You’ve found one. Now give me mine back.” Her growled, leaning forward threateningly, oil dripping off his frame as he lifted out of the liquid.

“You want me to kill your consort?” Optimus asked, looking the other mech in the optics. If that was what Sentinel wanted, he was going to have to wait. Bladespark had given him too much to offline the poor thing. She would have to make the decision to go to Sentinel herself. He was a cold sparked killer, no doubts, but Bladespark had made a loyal mech out of him. 

“Yes. Wait…no. Just release her from her duties.” Sentinel deflated slightly. “She has fulfilled her part.” 

“I have no consort. I have a femme I fell on in a fit of rage, and my chestplates opened.” Optimus dead panned, looking off to the side of the room, not wanting to meet his mentor’s optics. “It’s not as though I actually plan to take her as anything other than a pleasurebot. I think I am more like Nova than you, mentor. I cannot take a femme as a consort. They’re not strong enough to keep up with me on a daily basis.”

“You think Bladespark is weak?” Sentinel returned, settling back into the oil. His temper was quick to incite, but also quick to cool. Much easier to deal with than Nova’s rages.

“Bladespark is different.” Optimus shot back almost petulantly, before realizing that he sounded exactly like a mechling with his first crush. Hot embarrassment chased up his backstrut. Sentinel grinned, feeling the other mech’s discomfort from where he sat.

“Give her a chance, mechling. You feel something for her. I think she’s your true Consort. If she’s not, she will warm your berth, and you’ve sent a strong message to the remaining wildlings.” 

And just like that, Optimus woke in his own berth, cold and alone. Well, not exactly alone. Ratchet was recharging in a chair only a few meters away from the berth, arms crossed over his chassis. He was holding what looked to be Optimus’ next dose of sedative. Perhaps he did need to disburse a punishment for his fragging medic.


	8. Meeting the Medic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elita meets the CMO and gets a glimpse of his horror show of a med bay.

Elita’s helm throbbed in tempo with her spark, but she drew herself up to her full height as she walked down the darkened hallway. She felt like she was many times her actual weight, her steps scuffing against the metal beneath her pedes. Her complete opposite - Bladespark seemed to float next to her, the femme’s pedefalls hardly making a noise. The silver bot ahead of them seemed angry with the entire universe, his helm down low and his visor flashing with irritation. He had been this way ever since the Consort had entered the ‘examination room.’

  
The elder femme and the silver bot had exchanged heated words about letting her down from the restraints. In the end, Bladespark had simply declared that she was the Prime Consort, and that she only answered to the Prime. The mech had snarled like a trapped beast, but had released Elita. Well, released may have been generous, as he more let her fall to the floor in a heap.

  
It was no surprise that Elita’s limbs barely worked, she had been strung up for several joors. There was still only limited feeling in her servos, and she kept stumbling whenever the floor was not perfectly level. They walked in complete silence, expect for the occasional creak of metal when Elita’s joints seized or her pedes scraped against the pavement.

  
They turned a corner and stopped at a set of double-thick blast doors. There was a general medical symbol etched into the surface, painted bright red, with a stamped glyph reading “Primal Medical Services.” Elita held back a snort of contempt. These mechs in the so called ‘civilization’ were so damned pretentious. To the rest of the world, this was a medical bay. A place to get your exhaust flushed and pray to Primus that you didn’t deactivate.

  
“Come along, Elita, dearest,” Bladespark said, stepping forward and palming the key pad at the side of the door. “We mustn’t keep the Hatchet waiting any longer.” The doors sank into the floor, allowing a mech of the Prime’s size to roll through while in alt mode.

  
Elita nodded, stepping through with the quiet femme. She noted that their silver shadow was mysteriously missing. He must have melted into the shadows as soon as they stepped into the waiting room. A young medical assistant was manning a large desk, and he squeaked when he saw Bladespark. He stood, bowed awkwardly, and motioned both Elita and Bladespark through the door to his left, admitting them into a long hallway. Elita immediately liked the space, as it was much brighter than the rest of the Primal Bastion, and smelled of clean chemicals.

  
Bladespark placed a hand on the small of Elita’s back, making the smaller femme jump. Bladespark waited until she settled, and then applied a gentle pressure, guiding Elita forward. She was far too tired and sore to protest the dominant gesture, saving her strength and picking her battles. The two walked down the main hallway until it branched off in three different directions. Three colors branched off the floor, gold, silver and black. They took the branch off to the right, the black direction.

  
Just as Elita was pondering what black could signify, they turned one more corner to see a large open bay. Mechs in varying states of death were lying on tables, on the floor and one was even hanging from the ceiling, his energon being drained into buckets on the floor.

  
Her tank roiled, sour energon making its way up her intake, and she heaved onto the floor before she could stop herself. Bladespark quickly jumped to the side, avoiding being splattered. Two graying frames were not quite so lucky, but a cleaning drone was at her side before she could stand upright once more. She watched the little drone work, coughing a few times to make sure that she could vent properly.

  
“Welcome to the Primal Medical Services bay, Milady.” A dry, humorless voice echoed across the room, and Elita looked up to see an orange and white mech with medic’s stripes sorting through a pile of energon soaked gears. His chevron was large and shockingly orange, but it was his optics that drew and kept her gaze. They were gentle, or at least as gentle as she had seen since being captured. He spared her no more than a single glance, seemingly unconcerned with her state of duress.

  
Her plating was dented and torn in places, covered in transfluid from that little silver bot, her lip was still split from where her helm had met the floor after the Prime had dropped her. And, of course, the mostly digested and curdled energon hanging from her intakes. She must have looked like something the insecticon had drug in.

  
“Ratchet, darling, how are you this fine orn?” Bladespark asked, navigating her way through the graying and grayed frames on the tables, finding her way to his side. Once there, the rested her helm on the other mech’s shoulder guard and gave him a quick squeeze with her arms thrown around his middle. Not that she could reach all the way around him – he was built more like a war build than any medic Elita had ever seen.

  
“Awaiting my punishment for when that oaf finally awakens. You know he won’t be happy with being drugged into a near-coma.” He snorted and picked up another gear, and set to scrubbing the energon off with a large bristled brush.

  
“It is a kindness, Ratchet. Maybe one day he will mature enough to see that. I will keep him from harming you. You know that, right?” She asked, dipping her helm slightly, trying to catch the other mech’s optics with her own. He steadfastly ignored her, keeping his optics trained on his work.

  
“I don’t need your protection, Consort. I have lived through many Primes more violent that this one. I will be just fine. Don’t worry your pretty little helm over an old mech like me.” He dunked the gear into an acid bath with his bare servos. The hissing sound of dissolving metal hit Elita’s audios, and another wave of hot nausea overcame her. She doubled over once more, but her tank was empty and she settled for dry heaving for a few moments.

  
“Still, Ratch. I will always look out for you. I will never forget the kindness you showed to me when everyone else was out to make my life as miserable as they could. And now, I am hoping that you will show the same kindness to her.” Elita’s helm snapped up, sensing the gazes of both bots.

  
“This is the new consort? Are we certain?” He asked, putting down the gear and making his way towards her. The ground shook as he came closer, making Elita run new calculations of how to take down the medic if he forced her hand. He was much too heavy to attack directly, and if he fell on top of her, the damage would be immense. Instead, she would be forced to attack his more delicate areas – his chevron, the backs of his knees.

  
“We are still waiting to present her to the council and Trion, but you were there when Prime almost claimed her. But this is classic, it’s almost precisely what I felt when I first met Sentinel. But Sentinel was not drugged before his stupor overcame him. Optimus certainly would have taken her on the floor like a beast if he had been given the chance.” Bladespark said, her tone warming with old memories of Sentinel taking her like a beast.

  
“So, nothing official yet,” The medic moved to stand in front of her. Elita willed her back to straighten, to appear strong in front of this mech, but she was simply too worn out to even consider taking her hands off her knees. “I am Chief Medical Officer Ratchet, personal physician to the Prime. And to his Consort, should that come to pass, little one. Please drop your firewalls.”

  
And with that, he pried open the medical port on the base of her neck and jacked into her systems. If this was kindness from the medic, she would hate to see what his ire would be like. Pain lanced through her neural net, and she worked to drop her firewalls as quickly as possible. When she wasn’t quick enough, the medic simply tore through them.

  
He looked first at her medical histories, checking through her directory to see if she had ever been looked at by a proper medic. He was displeased to see that it had been several hundred vorn since she had been looked at by anyone with a medical degree. But, overall, he found her to be in reasonably good health. A few broken limbs and snapped gears had been replaced by Wildling medics, who were at best a partially trained field medic, and at worst, dishonored medics who had been thrown out of their practices for unethical behavior.

  
At that thought from the medic, Elita had shown him her memory of walking into this lab, the gruesome scene laid out before her. Not all is as it seems, little one. His voice carried through her processors, showing her the credentials of all the mechs in his lab – all had donated their frames to his team’s studies. They were compiling a list of which body parts wore out first, leading to deactivation. He was studying the gears of the knees and arms, but Perceptor was interested in studying how innermost energon ages in a frame. Hence the mech hanging from the ceiling – Perceptor wanted as much of the flowing energon out of the frame before he could take a good sample of the still innermost energon. Each mecha in the lab had signed away their bodies to science.

  
Elita didn’t know what to make of that. These looked like no experiments she had ever seen, but then again, the Wildlings didn’t know much of science or medicine. They moved far too often and were much too concerned with pure survival to be able to devote any time or resources into such things. Maybe she had been too quick to judge. The medic moved quickly through the rest of her frame, stopping only to take a detailed diagnostic of her joints, and to measure her spark rate.

  
When he detached from her medical port, she hissed and rubbed at the area. The burning sensation quickly gave way to a dull ache to match the rest of her frame. Ratchet stood fully and pulled Elita up from her crouch, giving no mind to the creaking of stressed metal. Together they walked in silence from the room, this time following the silver stripe to a series of small exam rooms with large berths. At the end of the hallway was a dead end, which was where they seemed to be headed.

  
Confused, Elita slowed and looked back towards Bladespark. While she didn’t quite trust the femme yet, there was more trust there than anywhere else. The elder femme merely bowed her helm for a split second and then leveled her optics on the medic. Ratchet stepped around Elita, brushing her shoulder plating with his own arm. An optic scanner lit up on the otherwise empty wall beside her helm, and the medic stood perfectly still for a moment.

  
Then a small door opened, leading into a dark and cool room. Ratchet pushed her gently and Elita stumbled into the room, followed closely by Bladespark. When all three were inside, the sound of hydraulics began under her pedes and the room lifted. They were in a lift, she realized as they moved upward and then sideways. It was so completely dark that the only way she knew which way they were moving was by looking into Ratchet’s optics. As her helm and his swayed from side to side, she could piece together the movement of the lift. They went up at least three floors, and then moved horizontally for at least several breems. The Bastion was a large place, and rumor was that it extended below ground at least as much as it showed above the crust of the planet. She was willing to believe – most rumors were based in fact.

  
Finally they ground to a halt, and the medic led them into a much brighter and more soothing space. The walls were a deep blue, accented with silver. There was a large berth and several obvious fans and temperature regulators. An empty bathing tub stood to one side of the room, sparkling white and clean as anything in a proper medbay. Bladespark shivered slightly next to her, her light armor ruffling and settling.

  
“This is the Prime’s general medical suite and Consort’s sparkling separation room,” Ratchet explained, tapping the surface of the berth lightly with one hand, beckoning Elita onto its surface. He looked her in the optics as she reclined on the table, “You’d best get used to this room, little one. That door opens to the Prime’s quarters. Only he and the CMO have the codes required to get into this room, and it is where you will be treated for all of your injuries. I also keep it stocked with the base necessities for all consorts.” His hands began popping out the larger dents on her frame, working quickly and with practiced motions. When he reached her shoulders, he massaged the angry and tense cables, smoothing the kinks. Elita couldn’t help the sigh of pure relief and pleasure that escaped her.  
Bladespark seemed agitated for the first time since meeting her. The calm, seemingly unflappable femme was pacing the room. After a few breems, she stopped pacing and began pulling out drawers from the wall. She took inventory there, and made small talk with Ratchet for a few moments, noting that he had kept the room well supplied despite the absence of a true Consort. After she had satisfied herself, the femme had stared into the empty tub for a few moments and then she simply turned and left through the door leading into the Prime’s quarters.

  
“Is he in there?” Elita’s voice sounded harsh, rough and unused. For orns now, she had only spoken when absolutely necessary, and her normally throaty vocals were almost destroyed. The bought of sickness in the lab had not helped the situation. The medic’s hands stilled on her knee, massaging the joint there.

  
“Yes. Though right now, he’s recharging against his will.” The medic’s fangs glinted in the overhead lights, his smirk wide. “Have you had any energon at all since Jazz finished with you?” He asked, pulling out a small cube of highly concentrated medical energon. Elita shook her helm, looking distrustfully at the cube. Ratchet nodded and tossed back nearly half the cube in his servo, offering the rest to Elita. A rose colored hand took it from him, sniffing it delicately. She didn’t have any upgrades to sniff out poisons, but she had gotten pretty good at telling when energon had gone bad. Wildlings often had the last pick, and sometimes mecha poisoned their refuse out of spite. After a few moments, she took a small sip. And the liquid hit her tanks with a pleasant warming sensation, helping to settle her after her bought of illness.

  
Bladespark reentered the room, as quickly and quietly as she had left. “He is resting uneasily. I think he may be having bad recharge feedback. He’ll be upset when he wakes,” She looked to Elita for a moment, surveying her entire body from pede tip to helm. “When will you be done with her?”

  
“You can take her now. The rest of her damage is all painful, but will be sorted out with a little recharge and some more medical energon. I would suggest that you leave her here to recharge for at least two joor and then you can clean her up a little. Maybe you can have her ready for his berth when he wakes. That’ll distract him from all the drug remnants for a little while, at least.”

  
“Yes. Elita, love, get a little recharge. I’m going to go see a few contacts who can help get you up to looking and acting like a Consort. Be prepared for some very long decaorns.” Bladespark turned on her heel and strode back towards the door to the Prime’s quarters, and the medic stood and gathered his few tools from the berth.

  
“I am not a Consort.”

  
All motion in the room stopped. The medic snorted after a moment and left the room through the Prime’s door, patting Bladespark on the helm and whispering, “This is your problem, lovely. I’m out.” When the door closed, the dark femme turned to face Elita, face soured slightly.

  
“Elita. You have two options, as I see it,” She moved closer to the berth, and Elita sat up much straighter. “You can either pretend like you’re okay with being the Consort and thereby give your friends, your so-called family, a chance at life. Or, you can be a stubborn pain in my aft and I will drag you to him kicking and screaming. He, like most Primes, love to dominate and make their underlings submit. You will not like his technique.” She drew a hand across a small but cleanly healed cut on her abdominal plating.

  
“If you play this right, and I think you’re smart enough to make it work – you could become the most powerful person on Cybertron. You could have the audio of the Prime, of the absolute ruler on this planet. I didn’t have enough time to establish myself. But you do, especially if you start out properly. Woo him, make him see that you are the best, the brightest, the strongest. The one who will stand beside him when all others run. You can take the pain of the position. You’ve barely winced all orn and I went through what you’ve just gone through. I know the pain, the humiliation. I know it well. And you look like nothing happened. You have the inner strength to make this work where I failed.” She stopped moving forward, and instead retreated towards the Prime’s chambers. “Recharge now. Tomorrow will be rough for all of us.”


	9. The New Consort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bladspark realizes that she is no longer the Consort.

“Dried transfluid may be the worst substance on this planet,” Bladespark muttered, scrubbing at a spot of the pinkish substance on Elita’s left pede. “I swear to Primus. Mechs feel the need to spread it everywhere.”

Elita, for her part, was almost strutless in the heat of the steam in the cleaning room, and didn’t know how to respond to the unusual femme on her knees. Most of the things she said were either wholly inappropriate, just plain disgusting or some sort of drivel about Primus’ plans. Sometimes, it was a combination of all of them. Actually, _most_ of the time it was a combination of all.

The femme in front of her was more than content to scrub at her scuffed rose colored plating, and had even shooed away several servants who had come to help the pair. It was odd behavior, from what she understood of those in the noble class. This femme should have been waited on servo and pede as the Prime Consort. Instead, she was more than content to curse like a gladiator and had the manners of one, as well.

Ordinarily, Elita would have been more than happy to clean her own plating, but this steam room was a little intimidating. She had used them before, of course, but the uses were few and far between. She had only really had access when she had a particularly good day and felt the need to splurge the recently stolen credits.

And this wash rack was truly a sight to behold. It made her tanks roil with the incredible splendor. The floors were shot through with precious metals, obviously mined with the greatest of care and then polished until she could see her reflection. The walls being polished she could understand, but why on the floor, of all places? Mecha walked their nasty, filthy pedes across this floor. Why on Cybertron did the floor need to have such a mirror finish?

Besides that, the sheer number of controls for this rack was processor crashing. The elder femme had drug Elita into the space and fiddled with the controls for only about a klik, but she had gotten a glimpse of all the settings. The showers she had rented, even from the nicest of establishments, had only had a setting for ‘jets’ and ‘steam.’ This one had at least a dozen different settings and cleansers in an array of colors and scents.

“Excuse me, my Lady Bladespark, but we do need to make a selection for her colors and sealant. The painter will be here in just a few moments, and he does tend to treat the staff rather poorly if everything is not set out for him in just the right manner.” A servant, a head or so shorter than Elita, stood in the doorway to the racks with his helm bowed slightly, but making optic contact with the femme on the floor. At least this servant looked like his finish was unmarred by whips and electrocution. Maybe he was smarter than most, to avoid such punishments.

“Ah, yes, of course. I apologize, Nightrider.” Bladespark rose to her knees, joints creaking from her time on the polished floors. Bladespark looked at Elita carefully, running a hand down the rose colored cheek plate, caressing softly as her optics traveled the length of Elita’s body. “I think that this femme is well suited to her current colors. The red is light enough to compliment the red that the Prime has, but dark enough to make her seem distinguished and grounded. Of course, she will be painted with the highest quality paint we have. I will not see her painted in that cheap slag. She needs to look the part.”

Nightrider agreed with a small murmur and vanished out of the door way, apparently needing no further instruction. Elita watched the doorway for a few moments after the other mech had departed, lost in the stillness of her processors. After the torture, which had only been a few joors prior, her processors felt empty. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. And they seemed unconcerned that her energy reserves were low and her need to recharge had caused her optics to dim.

“You’d best learn to enjoy being painted, little one. If my Prime was anything to go by, you’ll be scuffed and scratched enough to stand for painting at least once a decaorn. For the first while, at least. I will give you a crash course of what is expected of you to pass the time.” She smiled gently, patting Elita’s cheek with a little more force than was necessary for such a gesture. “Sunstreaker is a perfectionist and a narcissist. This will take a while.”

* * *

 

Elita allowed herself to be led from the washrack into a room which was white enough to make her reboot her optics. The floors, walls and ceiling were all immaculately white, no speck of color or personality, except for the mecha within the room, a brilliantly gold and red pair of handsome mechs.

The red mech was slightly larger and taller than the gold, but only just. They had similar builds, but the golden mech was breathtakingly beautiful, enough to even make Elita look him over. His helm fins were unique, but suited him quite well, lending a sense of ethereal beauty to his features. The red mech was more scuffed, his finish was less than perfect, but it was his smile that set Elita on edge. Both of these mechs screamed ‘predator’ in a way that the most primal part of her processors warned her to keep both in her line of sight at all times. Despite her shock and exhaustion, she stood taller and regulated her venting. Looking weak in front of predators got Wildlings killed.

“Elita, this is Suntreaker and Sideswipe. They are split spark twins, and are part of the Prime’s regular staff. Sunstreaker is an excellent painter, and an art curator for the Prime’s estate as well as the Iaconian Art Museum,” The golden mech dipped his helm, a touch of a smile gracing his lips as his optics traced Elita’s form. “And Sideswipe, who is a sales mech and buyer for the Prime.” The red mech nodded his helm, his smile widening, showing a set of wicked fangs.

“What kind of things are curated by the Prime?” Elita spoke for the first time since leaving the torture room. The question seemed to just slip from her mouthplates, and even she looked surprised at her blatant curiosity. The red mech seemed to shiver, his armor flattening and puffing as he looked to Bladespark for permission to speak. The elder femme nodded, gently steering Elita to the center of the too white room.

The golden mech walked a tight circle around Elita, taking in her entire form through cold optics. It was obvious that the mech had no passion for her form, which was something Elita took a measure of comfort from. Maybe, just maybe, there wouldn’t be any more transfluid spilled on her this orn. Sunstreaker nodded, tapping a wall with a finger and bringing up a hidden computer module. He rapidly touched several glyphs, and a paint applicator came up from the floor, deposited into his waiting servo. Elita’s optics brightened with shock. This mech was going to hand apply the paint onto her? Even the wealthiest mecha could only afford such a thing during the High Holidays. Most paint applications were done by automated machines. All those Elita had ever done were in quick spray booths, the quickest and cheapest way to change a paint scheme.

“Stand still. I would hate to have to make you redo this. You look terrible, and I am here to help remedy that. Let me do my work correctly the first time, and you and I will get along just fine.” His voice was just as cold as his optics, but his servos were warm against her frame as he positioned her in a relaxed but spread position. “This is low-grade acid. It will melt the paint off your frame. Next, I will do a primer coat, then the paint, then the sealer. Just stand still. And don’t open your mouth plates.” He spoke to her like he was speaking to a vorn old sparkling, using simple glyphs and intonations. A prideful part of her processor made to snap at the mech, but she held back, not wanting to waste the energy just yet. The orn was still young.

Elita nodded, locking her joints, prepared to stay still as long as was necessary. And it had not escaped her notice that Bladespark had still not given her any energon during their time in the washrack. They were withholding energy from her. The tactical part of her processor applauded the elder femme – with the trauma, she was low on energy and was unlikely to cause trouble without energon and recharge. For now, Elita played along. Best to pretend to be docile and easily controlled. Her time as a Wildling had taught her to conserve energy when possible, and always remembering that it was far easier to run than fight.

“The Prime procures lots of things, Elita,” The red mech, Sideswipe, said as he stepped next to his brother and watched as the spray began to dissolve the paint covering her frame. “He likes exotic things, organic things. Last vorn he financed a trip to an organic planet where I was able to procure a large piece of a substance called ‘wood.’” He held his hands out, demonstrating the size of the piece in question; large enough to span his entire body, at least. He, like his brother, spoke to her very simply.

“This Prime likes to collect things. I suppose Nova did, too, but Nova liked to collect numbers more than things,” The golden mech mused, stepping around Elita to ensure that the spray reached the back of her helm. The acid had already dried on most of her frame, and he moved on to the primer stage paint, moving in quick and steady strokes. “Nova liked to collect frags; he would write them all down and keep them. I think the mech was trying to screw the entirety of Iacon. He also collected a number of whip strikes. He was the simple sort.”

“And he liked to collect the numbers of all the mecha he executed. I remember running into that log in his office more than once. Had a section for mechs he executed and one for mechs he had ordered executed, but hadn’t had the time to do himself.” Sideswipe recounted, stepping closer to Elita and pointing at a spot on her shin, which Suntreaker immediately attacked with vigor.

With the primer set, Sunstreaker loaded the rose red color into the applicator and glared at Elita. She nodded slightly, moving was not something she was willing to risk with these two. They may have been an artist and a collector, but something about them set her on edge.

“Elita, this color looks amazing on you. Now that the paint actually looks like something a consort would wear, I think that I made the correct choice in not changing your look too dramatically.” Bladespark said, her optics rolling over the parts of her frame that were already painted. Sunstreaker worked quickly, but with an optic for detail. More than once he had wiped a piece of plating off, and had begun again. Elita remained as still as possible, allowing his hands to handle her as he saw fit. Maybe if she was good for this, she would be able to recharge and get some energon. Like a favored pet.

“The consort, as you are aware, is the companion to the Prime,” Bladespark said, drawing herself up a touch, taking on a more proud bearing. “We are the ones who share the berth of the Prime, we keep them grounded and in touch with reality. The Matrix of Leadership, as you experienced first-hand, is a powerful device with a mind of its own.” She paused, tracing a hand up Sideswipe’s helm almost playfully, and the other mech growled at her lightly, nipping at her fingers.

“The consort is chosen by the Matrix, not by the Prime. The Prime does not usually know what will soothe his or her ailing spark, but the Matrix knows their very cores. And, my dear, it chose you for Optimus. Now, Jazz stringing you up is quite common, unfortunately. It happened to me, as well. You see, that group of mechs are rather attached to the Prime, and it is their duty to see to his safety and security, but not to his happiness.” Bladespark moved away from Sideswipe to step directly in front of Elita, ignoring Suntreaker’s look of animosity as she gently moved him to the side. He dutifully began working on another section of plating.

“You are responsible for his happiness. And, make no mistake, now that Prime has gotten a small taste of what you were meant to be for him, he will pursue that happiness. The thing to remember, my darling, is that your definition of happiness and his will differ greatly.” Bladespark looked deep into her optics, stepping even closer to Elita. Any closer and the femmes would be touching.

A gentle cough from the level of her knees had Bladespark moving out of Sunstreaker’s way, and the mech made quick work of the rest of her plating. The new paint was itchy and uncomfortable, but it was nothing compared with the aches and pains settling into her frame. No medic had been called after she had been let down from the chains, and her self repair could only work so hard with no recharge and her tanks registering at near critical levels. Her shoulders screamed, her pedes were almost numb.

“There. She’s done. That was almost painless…I think I like this one. Much easier than Optimus makes it, at any rate.” Sunstreaker said as he stood from his position on the floor. One quick coat of a sealer so expensive that it was sprayed on rather than applied by hand and she was ushered from the all-white room by the upper arm, Bladespark tugging her along.

Elita could barely suppress her sigh when she realized that she had been drug from an all-white room into an all-black one. Bladespark chuckled quietly at the expression on her face, and stepped away from the femme, pressing a small button on the side of the wall. The walls transformed away, black walls falling away to reveal a set of mirrors directly in front of her.

The femme staring back at her bore a striking resemblance to the elder femme next to her. Not in shape or age, but in grief and exhaustion. It wasn’t in the paint - they were both painted to perfection, the shimmering flecks were rich and subtly reflective. It was truly the paint of the rich and famous. It was in the optics, she realized. They had the same optics. Both were tired, a deep sort of exhaustion which could not be chased away by recharge or a defrag. It was core deep. Bladespark’s words echoed through Elita’s processor as she looked between herself and the older femme, ‘The thing to remember, my darling, is that your definition of happiness and his will differ greatly.’

“My Lady Bladespark, the Lord Prime has come up from the Matrix and wishes to see the Consort.” Nightrider’s smooth voice echoed through the chamber, unseen but definitely heard.

“Very well, Nightrider. I will be there shortly.” Bladespark said, leaning away from Elita and turning towards the back of the chamber.

“No, my Lady. I am afraid the Lord Prime was referring to Lady Elita. _The_ _Consort_.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

"Did you grab Trion?" Ratchet's booming voice echoed down the hall, his pedefalls following. He caught up with Ironhide about halfway to the front door of the medbay, stopping only for a moment when Ironhide threw out an arm and caught the medic around the shoulders. Bladespark and Elita followed, their shorter legs making them jog to keep up. They had no time to slow, even though he could feel the glares on the back of his helm. Bladespark would have to keep her opinions to herself for a while. Ratchet was too busy trying to save his own spark now that the Mad Prime was awake and ready for vengeance. 

"'O course, Ratch. I may be slow in the processor, but even I know when to get Trion involved. He wants to see her separately, before Optimus goes nuclear on us," The giant red mech smirked down at Elita, her glare trying to burn his plating off. "Oh, come on little one. I mean no harm, not to you or Mia."

"How do you know her name? I doubt she told you." Elita 's optics dimmed and her voice flattened, but she was genuinely curious. If these mechs knew names, they either had files or were doing forced hacks on her family. The first was irritating, but the second was inexcusable. Or, an even stranger proposition: Mia actually gave the red mech her true name. These mechs were driving them all crazy. 

"She had a little one on one time with Jazz this morning. Enjoyed it, too..." He grinned broadly, spreading his thighs a little farther apart, thrusting his crotch plate towards her slightly. "Don't be jealous, though, she still loves you and only you. Ever faithful." 

Elita hitched herself up to her full height, ignoring the sharp sting of pain and the exhaustion that enveloped her. Chromia had confessed her love more than a few times over the vorns, but it had been an afterthought after interfacing, or when she was stressed. Elita could never return the words, not in the way that Mia wanted to hear. Mia was a good lover, always attentive and affectionate, and a great hunting partner. But for the rose red femme, the feelings were one sided. 

"Ironhide! Show the Consort the respect she deserves. Baiting her is not going to do you any favors in the long run. The Prime has obviously made his decision and you will be able to keep the blue femme if you play your cards properly. Making the Consort upset is not a way to get Prime on your side. One day soon, he will be able to feel her spark and her emotions. Then he'll come looking for you when she's upset." Bladespark hissed, raising her voice as she invaded the mech's personal space. The red giant he the good grace to look cowed, rubbing one large hand across the back of his helm and stammering out an apology to the elder consort. Before the situation could further erupt, Ratchet cocked his helm to the side, obviously listening to something the rest of them could not hear.

Footsteps echoed towards the group, but they were not the confident steps of the Warriors Elita was used to hearing. These steps were light and shuffling, with a small delay between the footfalls. An elder mech turned the corner to the Medbay, a limp obvious in his gait.

Elita almost reset her optics in shock. This was by far the oldest mecha Elita had ever laid optics on. Wildlings did not tend to have the longest lifespans, so in comparison this mech mech looked like he could rust through the floor at any moment. 

"Alpha Trion, it's good to see you outside the archives. We would have come to you, if you had requested." Bladespark bowed to him, exposing the back of her neck to him in an overtly submissive manner. Elita's optics brightened, taking in every detail of the scene before her. This mech was obviously more than a little important, and the Consort was expected to show him more than a passing courtesy. 

"No need for that, my dear. These old joints need to be lubricated the old fashioned way every now and again, despite what our illustrious medic states." Blindingly bright blue optics turned to look at Elita, meeting her gaze for a moment before traveling the length of her body. He began with her pedes and swept up her body, stopping briefly at her chassis and her hips. He shifted, his gears creaking as he slowly limped around her, viewing her from the back.

"Acceptable," He stated simply, "Now, you and I and Bladespark need to have a private conversation before we go to see the Prime. Ratchet, may I borrow your office for a few moments, please?" He asked courteously, bowing his helm to the medic, while already on the move towards the office. Ratchet answered with an affirmative just as the elder mech crossed the threshold into the dark office. Elita stole a glance at the medic, catching just a hint of humor on his faceplates.

Bladespark pulled on her elbow, almost dragging the slightly swaying femme after Trion. After almost tripping over her own pedes, Elita followed and stumbled into the office. The old mech was already seated at the desk, cleaning the surface of imaginary dust with the palm of his hand. Elita felt a smile threatening to break her cool facade, this mech was obviously a character in all aspects of the word.

Elita and Bladespark stood side by side in front of the desk and the enigmatic mech seated there. Without a word, the mech pulled a cube of high grade out of his subspace and placed it on the desk's wide and now clean surface directly in front of her. While she didn't want to accept energon from any of these snobs, she couldn't ignore the energy warnings popping up every few moments any longer. She bowed her helm slightly to the mech before taking the offering, carefully sipping until she was certain it wasn't tainted. 

She tried to be lady like as she drank, but when her tanks registered the pure fuel, the gulping began. In a matter of moments, the cube was empty and returned to the table top. The elder mech was completely silent, staring at her blankly. After a few awkward moments, he opened his mouth plates and then closed them again, looking to Bladespark. The other femme shifted on her pedes, clearly uncomfortable.

"Well, I can see what you mean when you said she needed to have extensive etiquette lessons. The Wildling in her is obvious, even with the new paint job. The way she holds herself, the way her energy field distributes. I will contact Sideswipe as soon as we are done here. As much as I hate to say it, he and his brother might be the best 'Bots for the task." Trion smirked a little, sitting back in his seat and looking over once again. There was nothing overtly inappropriate in his gaze, but she was intensely uncomfortable with anyone looking at her. 

When the mech stood and crossed around the desk, she stood a little taller. It wouldn't do to show any weakness, and now that she had a little energy in her systems, her fire was coming back. When old weathered hands began tracing across her back and hips, her jaw dropped and she bit back a growl. When he went to trace the seams of her chest plates, she couldn't help the verbal explosion. 

"I'm standing right here. I may be a Wildling, but that doesn't I'm dense. Or that I'm an object to be caressed!" She spread her legs apart a little more, solidifying her stance. The energon raced through her systems, making her feel light and airy, better than she had felt in the orns since she had first been taken. She still wasn't willing to get into a physical fight, but she wasn't going to let them bully her.

The mech simply smiled at her while Bladespark visibly pulled herself to her full height and moved to grab the other femme. Before she could do much more than grab Elita's upper arm, Trion held up one hand and stopped her. 

"Alright, my dear. I will not speak above you, but I need you to answer my next questions with the complete truth. Everything you say directly impacts not only your future, but that of your loved ones. Do you understand?" He nodded when she did, continuing, "First thing, is your spark untouched?"

"Yes. Well...It's been played with, finger and glossas, but no other sparks have touched mine." she admitted, feeling very young and insecure between the two much more distinguished mecha. She had never understood when others had explained having an 'out of body' experience, but here she was, spilling the details of her interfacing life to mecha she had never met before.

"And that is what I get when I ask for full honesty," Trion said dryly, circling the desk and leaning back in the chair and crossing his hands over his middle, looking completely at ease. "And there is that field betraying everything you think, my dear. We need to get this under control before you go under the public optic." She nodded shyly, focusing on her EM field and bringing it under control. 

"I understand that your valve has been taken, and by another femme," He looked to Bladespark, "Ironhide's latest toy? Ah, yes, the little blue one, but have you ever had a mech's spike?" Elita's EM field was slipping again, so she took a moment to vent and gather herself before answering.

"Not that I can recall. I prefer femmes." To her left, Bladespark smiled and suppressed a chuckle, finally relaxing her grip on Elita. 

"Interesting..." He surveyed her for a long moment, before he pulled out a simple data pad and handed it to her. "Please read up on the history of the consort when you end up in the medbay aft the Prime is done tearing you apart. Your valve will be replaced before the ceremony, but I'm afraid we don't have that chance with your spark. I will be representing the senate while Optimus takes you today, so that if he does merge with you, the bonding will be recognized as legitimate."

Elita bristled, her spark wiggling unhappily in its cage. No mech had any say over her spark, no matter who they were or what they did.

An animalistic roar answered the call of her spark, rippling through the and almost seeming to move the floor under her pedes. 

"It would seem that our time is up, my dears. Bladespark, let's control this as much as we can. Please sneak Elita up to the throne room, and Ironhide and myself will distract the big oaf until you comm me when you are ready." With that, he simply swept out of the room, leaving both femmes alone once again. 

"You're ready, sweetspark. Nothing he can do to you is irreparable. He will be bonded to you after this, and you pain will become his. And vice versa," Bladespark opened the door and stepped into the corridor, interlacing her fingers with Elita's own, squeezing lightly. Elita squeezed back. The elder consort was far from a carrier figure, but she seemed to be the only one who cared about her, and was the only one who knew what she was going through. 

An animalistic roar echoed through the hallways, followed by the muffled sounds of clashing metal. 

"Come. We are just about out of time, and I would like 0to have you in position before he get to you and simply starts ripping pieces off."


	11. The Taking

See, this was why Elita preferred femmes to mechs in the berth. With femmes, interfacing was all about kisses and soft words, gentle hands tracing valves and spikes. There was romance - or at least the pretense of romance in the case of Wildlings making love on hard ground instead of a pliant berth. 

Laying on the cold hard metal floor of the Prime's throne room was neither gentle nor soft. Or par-ticularly romantic, for that matter. When Bladespark had demanded that she lay down and lay her helm in the elder consort's lap, Elita had balked. Who did they think she was? Some sort of whore for the Prime to express his kinks upon? She wasn’t about to make this easy or pleasant for the brute. He would have to rape her like his mechs had raped her family. 

Before she could argue the point to her fullest ability, Bladespark had grabbed her by the shoul-ders and shaken her. Shaken her. Like a naughty youngling. 

"You don't realize the kind of damage this mech can do to you, but I do! Ratchet is the best, but Nova Prime offlined at least three of his consorts when the Matrix madness overtook him. Do you understand?" Bladespark shook her again, an edge of panic creeping into her field. Elita had just nodded. Some fights weren't worth it. Not in this strange place. 

"Why am I on the floor? Couldn't this at least be done in a berth?" Elita's optics shone with a light humor, the fresh energon coursing through her lines giving her back some strength. "This whole 'take the femme on the throne room floor' thing seems a little...Wildling." 

Sharp optics roamed her faceplate scathingly, but the sounds of pedefalls silenced anything the femme would have said to the soon to be Consort. 

Jazz and another mech sauntered into the room and took up positions on either side of the large throne. The little silver mech leaned impetuously against the side, but the black and white stood with a much more proper bearing, looking every inch a proper mecha – maybe a military spark? 

Bladespark spared them a glance, and Jazz nodded to her in a pseudo friendly gesture. She slowly lowered herself to the floor, resting her back on the legs of the throne. She held out a hand to the new Consort, silently asking her to lay down. 

Noting the arrival of the new mechs, Elita hesitantly slid to her knees before the elder Consort. The gears in her legs strained, the hydraulics whining gratingly in the quiet of the chamber. When this was all over, she hoped that Ratchet would be amenable to giving her a full rehaul.

Ever so slowly, the rose femme lowered herself onto the cold floor and rested her helm in Bladespark's lap, letting her legs go lax and her thighs slightly spread. The chill of the metal sunk into her weary struts, cooling the overheated and stressed metals. 

Silence descended upon the chamber, the only noise was a slight buzzing noise between the two mechs behind her helm. Elita tilted her helm back, looking at the mechs. Jazz was still leaning casually against the side of the throne, but the black and white was looking even more tense than he had a few moments before. If he got any more tense, he might just snap those pretty little wings right off his chassis. A dark humor gripped her for moment. That would at least be enter-taining for her to watch. 

The familiar sound of shuffling steps reached her audios and she turned her attention away from the mechs at the throne and looked to the side of the chamber. The big red mech and Trion en-tered the chamber, closing a servant’s door behind them. 

The giant red mech – Ironsomething - was carrying a medium sized folding chair, which he quickly set up for the elder mech, presenting the seating with a small flourish. 

And then the floor started shaking. For a long moment, no one in the entire hall dared to vent or move. Elita's optics widened and brightened, looking up at her anchor for a long moment. Bladespark did not look at her, instead looking towards the double doors at the end of the hall. But her hands gently traced the sensor spikes on Elita's helm, soothing and half arousing the younger femme. 

The shaking increased, and several more mecha slipped into the throne room through many small servants doors on either side of the hall. Elita's optics roamed over the crowd, wanting any dis-traction from what was about to happen to her - anything to help anchor her and keep from pass-ing out in the middle of the floor. 

A few of the mechs were fliers, with both broad and slender wings displayed proudly across their backs. Elita had only seen a few fliers in her entire life, mostly because fliers lived with other fliers. But every time she had seen one streaking across the skies above the forest, she had loved see-ing their innate grace and poise. Seeing them now made her feel sad and troubled. Such beautiful creatures should not be kept indoors. 

The other side of the room showed a few grounders standing together, and she recognized both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker by their paint jobs. A growl escaped her when her optics landed on the mech with the holo-emitter who had managed to trap her family and led her to be in this posi-tion. Without his interference, she and everyone else would be calmly going about their lives, and she and Chromia would still be leading their rag-tag band. 

Bladespark's fingers tightened in a warning around her sensitive helm sensor spikes. The Con-sorts couldn’t be distracted by any thoughts at the moment. Elita checked back in with her new reality, and the shaking seemed to be in her very struts now, and the sounds of clanging metal sounded through the chamber. It was almost time. Her vents became ragged, fingers curling use-lessly against the metal floor. Bladespark still wouldn't look at her, focused entirely on the doors. 

And then there were no more doors for her to look at. Elita gasped at the sounds of metal rending, snapping her helm up to look towards the entrance. Optimus Prime's silhouette was clear against the backdrop of partially melted metal doors. His optics glowed almost as brightly as the white hot battle axe in his hand. Melted slag dripped off the end of the fearsome weapon, making a small puddling on the floor at his pedes.

Ice blue optics scanned the chamber, taking in all who were gathered to watch him desecrate his new mate. When he locked onto Elita and Bladespark, his optics faded to a bright white and he dropped the battle axe. The thud of the axe landing was practically a death knell in the chamber.

"Here we go, sweetspark. Be still, and try to relax. I've had him many times and he is big. Very big." Bladespark whispered down to her protégé, ignoring Jazz's giggle. For her part, Elita couldn’t take her optics off of the beast stalking towards her. The energon in her systems raged through her lines, fueling her to move, to run. 

Bladespark held tight to her finials, digging her fingers into the seams and using the pain to an-chor the other femme. The elder femme worked quickly and quietly, sliding her fingers into the sensitive portions of Elita’s frame. She teased hidden nodes along the Consort’s fuel lines, trying desperately to get the young femme producing more lubricant. The slicker she was, the easier this would be. 

The Prime’s shadow fell over them all at once, and Elita couldn’t help the surge of her spark. It felt like her spark was trying to leave her body, slamming against the casing. He was an imposing fig-ure on a good orn, and seeing him like this – he was beyond terrifying. 

The Prime’s knees hit the floor in front of the pair, denting the metal, and two huge hands gripped rosy red knees. The metal of her frame screeched as it bent, and Elita cried out as a fresh wave of agony hit. The past pains of the orns had faded into the background with a little rest and rela-tive relaxation, but all was wiped away with one small motion from the Prime. 

The Prime kept pulling her knees apart, sending small jolts of pain down her spinal strut, until her hips squealed. Her back bowed, wrenching her helm away from Bladespark’s hands, riding the waves of pain like she would have an overload. Embracing the pain, offlining her optics and riding the pain rather than running from it. 

A steady rumbling met her audios when her helm slammed back to the ground, the metal under her denting slightly. She onlined her optics, coming faceplate to faceplate with the Prime himself. He was leaning over her, his knees now resting under her hips, her own legs wrapped intimately around his torso. It was an intensely vulnerable position for the femme, one that exposed her chassis and throat to the monster above.

For a moment, they both just looked at one another. But it was so much more than that. Her spark ached for him, and her valve clenched on itself. For the first time in her life, she wanted a mech’s spike inside her, transfluid filling her tank. This powerful creature could be hers to tame, hers to rule for all eternity. His optics did not leave hers, but they darkened from bright white back to a darker, deeper blue. 

He leaned over her, blocking most of the court from seeing her frame, some of his weight resting on her body. His forearms rested on either side of her helm, sandwiching himself between Bladespark’s legs. His hands gripped her finials, interlacing his fingers around Bladespark’s, both mecha squeezing and tempting her to arousal. 

One large finger teased a small node between her helm and her neck, making her bow off the floor once again, gasping and venting hot air. Her chassis scraped against his, and she was bathed in a bright white glow. Gentle fingers turned brutal, scraping her left finial and partially crushing the end of the right. 

His chassis slammed down on her body, his full weight causing her struts to groan, and her vents to struggle to move enough air to cool herself. She was dimly aware of Bladespark’s hands cra-dling her closer, pushing a calming field into them both. They were both far too gone for it to do a lot of good, but a small portion of her processor recognized the effort and appreciated it.

The Prime’s vents were blisteringly hot, and Elita could actually feel her paint bubbling in its wake. Her core temperature had skyrocketed, thinning out her fluids, making energon burn in her lines. The heat and pressure blocked out everything else in the room. The noises of the other mecha watching faded to the background, even her thoughts seemed to vaporize under this mech. 

His hips ground against her closed valve cover, the paint and metal there scraping, metal shav-ings hitting the floor between them. With each powerful thrust, her whole body scuffed against the ground, undoubtedly leaving beautiful red streaks against the black backdrop. Her whole body ached again, her helm to her pedes. But it was an exquisite pain, one borne of passion and feroci-ty rather than the degrading pain of Jazz and the torture room. 

The rocking motion of the Prime’s hips felt amazing, like this is how making love was supposed to be. For a femme who had always been with other femmes, the closest she had ever gotten to a spike was an indulgent set of fingers, but nothing could beat the sensation of heat and power that this mech was providing, and his spike wasn’t even out yet. Even just the dry thrusts were making her lubricate like a pleasurebot, the heat and slickness pooling behind her cover.

His helm was thrown back, neck cables straining deliciously, mouth open wide in a silent moan. Elita had never seen anything more striking in her entire life; it was so different than the soft touches and quiet cries of a femme. This mech was all sharp points and angles, there was noth-ing comfortable or soft about him, but he was molten passion above her. 

The dry rutting continued until Elita’s valve was practically pouring lubricant, the fluid feeling sticky and hot against her closed panel. She threw her helm back into Bladespark’s lap, her crushed fi-nial sparking lightly against the other femme’s plating, sending a steak of white hot feedback through her spine, straight to her empty valve. Elita bit her lipplates, knowing that she had already passed the point of no-return, and now she was desperate to have some sway over this mech. Maybe if she was a great fuck, as well as a dutiful bondmate, eventually she could own this mech. Everyone knew that mechs think with their spikes first, and then with their processor. Lucky for her, femmes could think with their processor while leaking a mech’s transfluid out their valves. 

Before she could retract her valve panel, Prime ran out of thrusting room. Elita was pressed up against Bladespark, who was pressed firmly to the base of the throne. The mech finally seemed to snap out of his lust induced stupor, now that his rhythm had been interrupted. His regal helm turned down, bleary optics focusing on Elita’s faceplate. She knew that she must look like a two bit pleasurebot, with her mouth wide open and her closed valve leaking and lubricating messily over his codpiece. Her optics left his, not able to stand the truth glaring in them. She would soon be his, and her work was cut out for her to scratch out a foothold in his life. His life. Not hers. Not anymore.

Bladespark guided the Prime’s helm with a gentle hand, pushing his faceplate towards Elita’s. The young Consort’s spark was bouncing all over its casing, feeling the Prime’s larger spark calling to her again, much the same as that first orn. His lipplates caressed hers in a slow kiss, rubbing his face against her own. The softness of his current actions made the aching of her frame stand out even more, her confusion only growing. Before she could dwell on his seemingly split personali-ties, his lips kissed a line down her sensitive throat, before licking a hot line down the center of her chestplates. 

Her chassis folded in half in a fraction of the time she expected it to take, her artic blue spark throwing the Prime’s faceplates into a stark light. As soon as her spark was exposed, a dark snarl escaped him, his vents becoming ragged and super heated. Elita cried out as more of her paint blistered and peeled under him, the bare metal scorching under the remnants of the paint. 

His chestplates pulled back, revealing the Matrix in its entirety to her for the first time. The ancient artifact seemed to glow with a dark violet hue, clinging on to the Prime’s spark chamber like a parasite. Optimus snarled again above her, his hips finally stilling against her valve cover. The Matrix squeezed his spark chamber before it slid smoothly in two parts, allowing him to expose his deep blue, almost black spark to her own chamber. 

For one long moment, neither of them moved. Neither vented. They just looked at one another. Elita’s hands were frozen on his upper arms, feeling the ripples of his muscle cables under her hands and feeling very small and weak in comparison. His helm dropped to her shoulder, and then his spark followed.

No one had seen fit to tell her how invading the process of spark bonding was. Everyone had told her to expect the pain of the Prime taking her valve, but Bladespark could have warned her how intensely frightening this process was. 

At first, the desperation hit. His desperation, not her own. His desperation to get his own frame and thoughts under his control. He showed her how he saw her in the moments before their merge. She was stunning in her agony and pleasure, his passion for her tampered only by the need of the Matrix to adhere his spark to hers before pleasuring his frame or her own. His spike had been locked painfully behind his codpiece, leaking transfluid. In an attempt to show her some pleasure, he rutted against her, hoping to fuel her desire for him. 

The next emotion to take her was pure lust and selfishness. His dark desires to keep her chained to his berth, leaking his transfluid for the rest of her life. He wanted to set alarms to remind himself to keep her gestation tanks filled to the brim, primed for when he wanted to bring a newspark into the world. She couldn’t help the fluttering of her spark at that thought. Her coding sang, wanting to bear this mech as many sparklings as he would gift her with. Her processor rebelled at the thought, wanting to delete her carrying subroutines as a small rebellion against the mech currently ruining her life. The damned medic had locked down almost all of her files, and she couldn’t even come close to accessing them, nevertheless destroying them. 

Then the emotions cut off, and he was exploring every nook and cranny of her very being. He was looking at her aspirations, her thoughts and feelings on everything from the colors around her to the mecha within the walls of his bastion. He didn’t seem concerned with her ambitions to manipu-late him and secure herself and her Wildlings in his life. If anything, she felt a flicker of apprecia-tion that she had thought about her plan and was willing to go through with almost anything to make it happen. 

Once he was done looking at everything he felt was important for him, he pulled her into his spark. It was cold. His thought processes were so very strange. He had two main thought pro-cesses, one that was his true thoughts, and then another that the Matrix edited and twisted. It was chilling to see the remnants, the redacted coding haunting her. The Matrix coding found her revul-sion amusing and began showing her some of Optimus’ darkest moments. 

His slaughter of the inhabitants of a Quintesson strong hold, pinning down younglings and carriers alike and shooting them through the optics one by one, pulling out their sparks last. He showed so many executions he had personally done, as well as those he sanctioned. Mecha who he didn’t know, he didn’t care to know. He didn’t know if they were actually guilty of the crimes they sup-posedly committed, and he didn’t care. 

He showed her the multitude of mecha he had taken to berth, those that he had hurt in his exu-berance. Jazz, spread under him, energon and lubricate in equal portions leaking out of his valve. The silver mech begging him to stop, to just let him tend to his valve for a moment, to allow him to pleasure his Prime in a different way. Prime had laughed, deeply amused, and contented to thrust into the pliant and torn valve under him. 

But then he showed her his revulsion at himself as Prowl had tenderly scooped up his mate, kiss-ing the broken silver mech gently, and applied numbing agent in the hallway in front of everyone. The General was not ashamed to be seen tending to his mate in his moment of weakness, hold-ing the smaller mech and carrying him to the medbay. The jealousy that had sparked in him to see that tenderness, wanting a life partner, someone to hold and make love to. Someone who would want to stay with him and comfort him. Not just in the berth, but always. He wanted a part-ner to help him with political decisions, he wanted someone to stand beside him when he ad-dressed his people. He wanted someone to spoil, to love. 

And then the Matrix had stepped in to edit that thought. Love was for the weak. His General was weak for handcuffing himself to the small silver mech. Their progeny would be weak, too. Mecha should procreate with equals, to strengthen their species as a whole. 

The Matrix turned its attention towards her, noting her pain. Not just her ability to deal with the physical pain, but her emotional pain. She may be a Wildling, but in being a Wildling, she had been strengthened by her adversity. She knew how to read mecha, she knew how to siphon en-ergon to feed herself and her family. She would gladly sacrifice herself to keep the rest going. The Matrix approved of these traits. The traits it did not approve of, like her ability to love deeply and unendingly, her regrets that Chromia was no longer her lover, were all things that could be changed with a little mental conditioning. In the end, after some training, she could be great. She would bear the Prime strong sparklings. Sparklings that the Matrix might be able to select as its next host, given that the Prime’s coding was strong enough to overcome her own weaker coding. 

The Matrix receded, giving Prime – Optimus – control once more. Pleasure flooded them both in a cresting wave, the Matrix obviously pushing them both towards a spark stopping overload, helping to solidify the bond much more quickly. The overload hit her like a tankformer, her frame’s agony and pleasure combining into a sensation that knocked her clean offline, resting safely under her bonded’s chassis, as the new Prime Consort.


	12. The Proving Grounds

"Do you really think she'll pull through this?" Sideswipe's voice rang loudly through the small space, even though he wee being relatively quiet, "She looks even more fragile than you did after Sentinel ripped you to pieces the first time."

Bladespark chuckled lightly, leaning a hip against the glass separating the two of them from the medical suite below. Inside, Ratchet and First Aid were working on replacing many parts of Elita, the Consort of the Prime of Cybertron. She wasn't yet conscious. And neither was the Prime, laying but a few feet away in a separate berth.

"She'll be fine. You just worry about doing your job. If you have any issues with her, you will report them to me first. Don't go getting in between the two of them. You'll get yourself and your brother killed." Bladespark sighed, twisting her torso before settling in to watch again.

"On a scale of me to Sunny, how bad is he going to be when he wakes up?" Sideswipe asked, tracing sharp claws over his faceplate, "Just so I know what to expect. And how fast I'll need to run and duck."

Bladespark was quiet for a few moments, simply watching the odd couple in the medical suite below. To the outside world, it looked like both mecha were completely offline and ignorant to the world around them. But she noticed details that belied their true status. Elita was truly offline, more or less dead to the universe, floating on a combination of post-matrix haze and Ratchet's best sedatives. But Prime was more awake than he looked. His optics were offline and his sparkrate was steady, but all of his body language suggested that he was keeping close tabs on what the medics were doing to his brand new mate. His palms were resting open, his pedes turned ever so slightly towards her berth. His helm finials were standing a few micrometers away from the berth, where they would have been resting on its surface if he was truly sedated. He was biding his time and truly resting. It spoke volumes of his trust for Ratchet and First Aid.

"I'm honesty not sure how he will react. It'll probably depend a lot on her. Luckily she'll be out for much longer than he. We have some time to brief him and get his part of the ceremony prepped. I've already spoken to Ratchet, and her valve has been replaced with a factory new valve and that paperwork has been misplaced. She's a virgin again. And her little blue friend has been persuaded to back up that story."

"Chromia? Ironhide's new playbot? I offered that mech six thousand shanix for that femme and all I got for my trouble was a punch to the faceplate. Looks like he's pretty invested for the moment. But you know Hide. He'll get tired of her soon. Woah! What the pit is Ratch going to her?" Sideswipe pressed his faceplate to the glass, his vents fogging the surface.

"Oh, that. No consorts have their spikes. It helps solidify the Prime as the most dominant mecha on the planet. How shameful would it be if footage got out that the Prime liked to catch what another mech was throwing? How would you feel if you knew that he would lay down and take it?" Bladespark asked, leaning a little closer to the hellion.

"Yeah. Okay. It'd make me feel like he was weaker. I see the point." Despite his words, the red mech still pressed his thighs together a little more than was natural. "What happens to her transfluid tank? Oh, never mind. There is goes." Sideswipe looked a little sick as he watched the macabre scene below them with more than passing interest.

"She won't be needing either. Plus, it's more room for her newspark to develop. A Prime ignited spark is not going to small, even as a sparkling. Poor thing will probably be nearly eviscerated when she delivers. They might even have to cut her open and go in from the spinal strut. One of the other Primes had a sparkling who was literally cuddling her carrier's spinal column and they had to cut it out." She glanced over at her companion, twisted glee welling up in her spark as she watched the mech squirm. Sideswipe knew better than to test her. She could dish gruesome details with the best of them.

"Can we please go meet with Trion? This is going to make me purge on my feet. And then Ratchet will take it out on my valve. That mech knows how to make it hurt so good. Plus, he's stressed as pit right now and he'll want to take it out on somebot." Sideswipe grinned at the femme. "Now that you're no longer the standing consort, you'll be able to play the field and maybe even take another mate if you're quiet about it. Is there any way I can persuade you to take Ratchet and keep him happy? Sunstreaker and I frequent the medbay during competition season, and my valve is delicate."

"Get. We have a meeting, and it doesn't do to keep your elders waiting. And Ratchet wouldn't want me anyways. He's not into femme frames. Thinks we're too skinny. I've been thinking of shoving Wheeljack his way. Those two can geek out when they're not making love. Or maybe during. Who am I to judge?" She chuckled and patted the other mech's cheekplate, ignoring his splutters.

* * *

 

The entrance to Alpha Trion's office was unlike anything Sideswipe expected. Something about the mech screamed 'dark, dank, foreboding,' and it seemed like his personal spaces should have been much the same. To his surprise, the office was bright, well painted and tastefully decorated with both sculpture and rare artifacts from history. The art and arms dealer in him positively drooled over some of the pieces, making him want to barter the purchase and make a killing in the process.

Bladespark's attention was not on the pretty decor or even on the mech himself, but on the large tome on the desk. It was of organic design, maybe of Quintesson origin. It was hard even for him to tell, and he was trained to pick up on such things. Even Sunstreaker couldn't place it, as he looked through his brother's optics.

The book was open to a blank page, and a feathered quill rested near an ink pot adjacent to the tome. Sideswipe was positively aroused by the sight of so many organic goods. For some reason mecha always wanted what they couldn't have, and the businessman in him recognized that the organic trade on an inorganic planet was lucrative even when the market was down. He could feed himself, Sunstreaker and Bluestreak for a vorn on the sale of the quill alone.

Bladespark sidled a little closer to the red hellion and leaned her weight against his pede in warning. The little femme had a blade embedded in her pedes as a self defense method. And she wasn't particularly picky about who she used it on. That had been Sentinel's idea, but Sideswipe had sourced the blade for the project back when Bladespark had just been bonded to the Prime. It had secured his position as the bastion's main arms dealer. He owed that blade a lot of his current success.

"Alpha Trion. It is lovely to see you this orn. You look well. This is Sideswipe, the bastion's official art and arms dealer." Bladespark spoke, formally introducing the red mech at her side.

"Good orn, Sideswipe. Tell me, what makes you think that you are more capable of training our new consort than current bastion staff? They did a fine job on Bladespark, and don't demand thirty percent more salary for the job." The old mech barely spared him a glance as he picked up his quill and began writing in the book. Sunstreaker immediately jumped in, using their bond to speak through Sideswipe. Damn Sideswipe and his inability to concentrate around expensive goods.

"Sir, with due respect, the bastion staff did a fine job with Bladespark. However, this femme is of a completely different background -"

"Is she? Bladespark herself comes from the servant class. She was a mere energon server when the Matrix called Sentinel towards her. They are not so different."

"Sir. Bladespark still grew up with refined energon from a cube, a berth to recharge on and a steady group of mecha around her to shape her behavior. She knew the difference between Sentinel's station and her own, and the deference that was necessary. Elita has grown in a mixture of group homes for orphans and the wilderness. She knows no deference. She only knows to not speak and reveal her ignorance. That shows that she is smart enough to learn deference and respect, but she needs someone who can relate to her and break things down in terms she can understand. I grew up on the streets. I can relate. The bastion staff couldn't imagine half the things Elita and I have done to stay alive." Silently, Sideswipe gave thanks to his more eloquent brother. It was times like this that made his twin more than worth his helm aches.

"Accepted. You will receive half your funds today, and then a quarter after the bonding ceremony and final payment after a one vorn trial period. If you should fail in your task, you, your brother and your chatty mate will be tossed to the curb to rot like the gutter mecha you are at spark. Am I clear?" Fathomless ancient blue optics peered into his own, and Sideswipe could only dip his helm in submission.

Bladespark removed her pede from him own and together they exited the chamber to the noise of a quill scratching against paper. It made him shiver, thinking about all the shanix he was leaving on that table every single day.

When the heavy doors shut behind them, Bladespark clapped a hand down on his backplating and chuckled. "You did it, hellion! Good job. I thought you were going to lubricate yourself when you first walked in, though. Please thank Sunstreaker for me. We will begin her training when she wakes up and has had an orn or two with her bondmate. The Prime shouldn't be kept without his mate. I hope you don't mind him watching your training. You should plan accordingly. I wouldn't touch her at all for a while. And she can communicate with him instantly through the bond."

With that, Bladespark practically skipped down the hallway towards the Prime's chambers. If no one else was going to use them, she was going to advantage of that huge recharge slab and hot oil bath. Maybe for the last time. Soon her spark would be settled and she could return to Sentinel.


	13. Internal Struggles

Pain, it seemed, was to be her constant companion in this life. Her valve ached, though not from abuse. No tearing or mending. It simply ached. The rest of her was not fairing much better. Her helm finials had been repaired, and the majority of her joints had been greased, hydraulic fluids replaced. Not a lot of her hadn't been retouched or replaced.

"Time to greet the universe, little one. Playing offline isn't going to work all orn." Ratchet's deep grumble reached her audials, followed by a light pet to the center of her helm.

Heaving a sigh through her vents, she onlined her optics to take in the grumpy medic. He looked worse than she felt, covered in scratches and dents. Transfluid stripes decorated his chassis and thighs.

"Who fragged you, Doc?" She snarked at him, unwilling to let his appearance slide. It wasn't often that she was in better physical condition than someone else in this pit foresaken Bastion. She had to take her opportunities when they arose.

"Heh. Cute, little one. I did all the fragging, but you're adorable thinking you can snark me and get away with it. I have a long memory, and access to the best drugs. Which you'll never see if you keep this up," He paused for a moment to take in several readings on a screen above her helm before grunting, "You look good, kiddo. As good as you're going to get. Take it as easy as possible, and don't pick fights. You should be the picture of submissive grace until your auto repair can smooth out all these issues."

"Where is everyone? Why can't I feel him?" Elita asked, dragging one dead-feeling limb up to her chassis to rub over her spark chamber. Her spark felt numb, she couldn't even feel the thrumming that proved she was still living. Her spark rape felt like it happened vorn ago, felt fuzzy and non distinct. Her professors were protecting her from the trauma. At least, that was her best guess. Maybe the medic had tampered with it.

"The Prime is holding court, trying to get ahead before your bonding ceremony. You can't feel him because I have a blocker installed on your entire chassis. You don't want me to open it yet. He's pissy as pit at the moment, and the longer we can pretend that you're offline, the better. You need the healing time. As much and as long as I can buy you. Which will probably only be a few joor. The walls have optics. And those optics like to squeal."

"Isn't he going to be upset with you? Why would put yourself in more trouble for me?"

"Sweetspark, the fire is already raging. A little bit more fuel on the fire isn't going to make that much difference. I've already been disciplined once this orn, and I'm certain more punishment is coming."

"Why not let me rot with everyone else? I'm just a fragging Wildling-turned-consort. Practically worthless. Even less than Bladespark when she was claimed by her Prime." Elita scratched the peeling paint on her chassis, finding it crispy and irritating as pit. Her sparkmate's venting had been so hot it had scorched her. What an aft.

"Just a Wildling my aft. I'm playing the long game with you, youngling. For the moment you're just the consort of the Prime. But in time, my credits are riding that you're going to be his proper bondmate, the Empress. If not, I lose nothing but a bit of my time. Either way, I gain someone to help watch my back."

"And he needs every bot he can get to watch his back," A new voice said from the doorway to her private recovery room. "Because somehow he always manages to get himself so deep in slag that I can't tell where he ends and the slag begins."

Ratchet stopped completely, looking towards the green and white mecha with startled optics. The two measured each other up, neither wanting to back down or be seen as the weaker one. Elita watched with interest; these mechs had more sexual tension between them than she and her Prime. It was fascinating to watch someone else have romantic issues, reminding her that she wasn't truly alone in her problems.

The green and white mecha turned towards her, pointing a blastmask and flashing audio indicators in her direction for just a moment. He dipped his helm and murmured a quiet "My lady," under his breath before turning back to the Chief Medical Officer.

"The Prime sends his regards to his Chief Medic, and wishes to gift you with my time for the next three orn. It would be my pleasure to serve you in all ways with my frame and processor, as it was bidden to me by my Lord and Master. However, I do suggest that we begin with a shower so that I may see only our passion." His audios flashed alluringly every time he spoke.

"My apologies. I did not foresee the Prime gifting me with his least favorite pleasurebot for any amount of time, nonetheless for three orn." Ratchet stood a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back and bracing his thick thighs. He was quite a specimen himself, if she was completely honest with herself. His bold coloration and dominant field made him alluring, and she was positive he was experienced.

"The Lord Prime wished to express his utmost approval with your work and therefore saw fit to gift you with the appropriate mecha and time frame." The green mecha stayed perfectly submissive in posture and tone, but the barb towards the medic was clear as the mask on his face.

"I'm just surrounded by sassy mechanisms today, aren't I? I can't do a damn thing about her, but I'll be taking it out on your metal hide, my favorite whore. I heard that you managed to literally rock Deathasaurus' world. An explosion in the middle of an interface? That's amazing even for you."

The mecha tilted his helm down in a shy nod. "Energon play is a very specific kink, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Most mecha who partake know that there is always the possibility of an explosion."

Ratchet's mouthplates dropped open slightly, giving his full attention over to the mecha in front of him. His field radiated ghostly pleasure, the light in his optics a little brighter. Clearly the medic found something in that sentence arousing.

"The Lord Prime, my master, also saw fit to mention that he is well aware the Consort is awake and functioning, and that your attempt to block the bond was easily counteracted by the Matrix. I apologize, Consort, but the Lord Prime also commed me to purvey to you that you should not look at other mecha with lust. That was your one warning and free pass. The only mecha who you will find worthy of your attention will be your bonded."

Fear tore through her before she could stop it. He knew that she had looked at Ratchet. Looked at him. Didn't touch him, didn't even come close. But he knew her thoughts. Disgust followed closely on the heels of her fear, and together they made her tank roil. She had to speak before the contents of her tank made themselves known to the outside world.

"Please take down the block, Ratchet. I wish to feel my bondmate. And whoever you are, thank you for purveying the message of the Prime. I am certain that you are much more than his least favorite whore, to send you here with such an important message." She looked the greenish mech directly in the optics, which seemed to startle him.

"Wheeljack, my Consort. I am merely a pleasurebot for the Bastion."

"A lifetime ago, he was a brilliant scientist with a bright future ahead of him. Then he stupidly created a weapon so unstable that it wiped out sixteen mecha in his division as they moved it to the firing platform. He lived and is punished by serving the rest of us," Ratchet chimed in easily, as though it wasn't a horrifying experience. "Brace yourself, femme. Here we go. Three. Two. One." And then he threw the switch a over her helm.

Dimly she was aware of the two other mecha in the room quietly arguing. But it was nothing compared to the roar of the Prime echoing in her spark. His presence felt too large, overwhelming. No other being could have a spark like this one - he was smothering her with his intensity, and he wasn't even close to her. Silently, she fought for herself. She fought for her right to have her own thoughts and feelings, to have her own space within her body.

Dimly, she felt his humor as he gave her the space she craved. He didn't have to, he made that clear. His spark was in another league from her own. Able to dominate her from afar. But he was feeling gracious, and so he allowed her to take back her spark. He eased away from her gradually, but she still felt like she was holding the pressure - The dam could burst at any moment.

"Steady, pretty one. Bladespark is on her way with your new tutors. We only have a decaorn to make sure that you wont embarrass your new bonded. You've got a lot of work to do."

Elita nodded, allowing her helm to fall back against the berth with a solid thump. A few moments rest wouldn't do her any harm. The presence of her mate in her spark made her feel heavy and vulnerable. Just as that thought crossed her processor, his presence surged wildly. Instead of pain and retribution, as she was expecting, she got warmth and comfort. Felt for just a moment his exhaustion, his wish to curl up beside her and fall into recharge by her side. It was enough to lull her to power down.

* * *

 

The Prime drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Listening to Jazz and Prowl give status reports about the Lunar energon supplies. He nodded in the appropriate places, but his spark and processors were almost completely given over to his mate.

She had fought him valiantly, but it was no surprise that she had given in to his authority so quickly. His spark was stronger than all others. He was the true Prime of his people. Of Cybertron. Her lack of true fight disappointed him a little - he was raring for a fight. And his transfluid tank was filled to the brim. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself into her tiny valve and make her take it all, but she was delicate at the moment, and Bladespark had already offered her services to him after this meeting.

His welds itched.

Prowl's monotonous voice droned on.

Jazz's fidgeting was making a scratching noise.

Magnus' left vent was slightly clogged.

His fist hit the table with a bang, metal versus imported stone. A crack in the surface spread rapidly, fissures breaking off to travel in many directions. Prowl immediately stopped speaking, door wings repositioning behind his back to be almost hidden. Jazz sat up a little straighter. All optics were on him.

"I have heard quite enough, General. Magnus, you are in charge of the remainder of the meeting. I expect a report in my queue no later than a joor after dismissal." He rose, allowing himself to tower over his subordinates for just a few seconds before taking his leave.

Bladespark was waiting in his office. Waiting was generous - she was already more than halfway to overload by the look of her. Spread wanton on his desk, using several of his datapads as a pillow, hands furiously working her external node. Sentinel's name on her lips, crying out to her long gone lover, unwilling to let him leave her thoughts.

He sank into his chair behind the desk and hovered close to the beautiful femme. Without conscious thought, he stroked the bond between himself and Elita, feeling that she was still steadily in recharge. Sighing heavily through his vents, he calmed the Matrix, reminding the artifact that his mate would need her energy for the coming days. They had much in store for her. And the femme directly in front of his faceplate was needy.

He allowed his field to gently mesh with the dark femme on his desk's surface, gently caressing her with warm affection. Sentinel had once adored this femme with a strength he could only hope to feel Elita some orn. The current Prime owed it to his predecessor to be as indulgent of his surviving mate as possible.

Her optics snapped online, focusing on him as she shouted her completion to Primus himself. She shivered and moaned, rocking back and forth on his desk's surface as she did so. Her fingers stayed stuffed in her valve, one hand pressing into her node as she came down from her high.

"Well hello, little one. Welcome back. Did Sentinel's memory pleasure you adequately? Or do you require a spike to help you remember fully?" He asked her, resting his chin on his hand and leaning on the desk.

"I am a femme of simple needs Optimus, and I am in great need of a spike. Preferably your spike, sir." Bladespark returned playfully, licking the fingers she had pulled out of her valve, putting on a show for him. The smell of her arousal swamped him, made his oral oils coat the inside of his mouth and glossa. Calling him 'sir' was the proverbial icing on the oil cake. She was feeling submissive. Perfection.

"On your belly. Face the door." He ordered, and she giggled lightly before indulging him.

"You forgot to lock it, sir."

"I didn't forget anything, fem."

The door stayed unlocked, the green light blinking at her, reminding her that anyone could walk in and see them together.

Giant hands slid under her hips, pulling her bottom up to his optic level while he remained seated. She had a lovely valve, with small pearly white details inlaid in the metal. Sentinel's designation had been lovingly stamped into the delicate plating right above her main node. It was his favorite place to lavish attention, and the glancing licks to her valve platelets drove the femme crazy with pleasure.

In this position, getting to the engraving was difficult, but he simply lifted her hips slightly and craned his neck. Licking in small teasing strokes and then again with long hard licks, he had Bladespark thrashing under his ministrations in a matter of moments.

Once her port was sopping wet, he stood and lowered her with a light pressure on her back. And then he slid home into her warm, wet port. Bladespark giggled as the large mech thrust into her port over and over again.

"I know where you are, Optimus. Think about your femme. She's so soft and smooth under your plating, isn't she? So pretty in pleasure and pain, so warm in her spark. She loves you, just doesn't know it yet. You're already feeling so much better, so much smoother and warmer. Think about her valve, her mouth. Imagine her on her knees in front of you, servicing you in front of the whole chamber. Just like I did for Sentinel. Think of her bringing you fuel, checking up on you, recharging with you. Wrapped in your embrace for the rest of her life."

The Prime dropped low, practically rutting her like a beast. Hanging on her every glyph like his life depended on it. Bladespark purred under him, enjoying the physical pleasure of being taken by such a magnificent creature, but truly basking in the emotional warmth Optimus was radiating. He wanted that for himself, even if he would never say it out loud. He wanted the intimacy that she and Sentinel had. Their relationship wasn't all sunshine and candies, and was often rough around the edges, but there had been real love between them. They had each cared for the other in some way or form.

Above her, Prime was lost to his fantasies, his thrusts varying in pressure and speed. Whatever he was doing to Elita in his helm must have been quite impressive. Suddenly he seized, a deep groan bubbling up from his vocal module, spilling his hot fluid deep inside her tank. She had been so lost in her thoughts of her own mate that her carry tank opened and allowed the life fluid to pool inside her. It was a jarring, almost unpleasant sensation. One meant for Sentinel and no other. Grimacing, she took all he had to give and remained still. Fighting the behemoth was not something that sounded fun to her at the moment, and she was already on her belly.

The Prime blinked several times, growling out the vestiges of his overload. He pulled out with a light groan, fingers immediately dropping to her node.

"Don't bother. I didn't finish." Bladespark snapped, rolling onto her back and stretching out. Her hip twinged a little, but it wasn't severe. It would fix itself while she recharged.

"You didn't finish?" The Prime asked, flexing his hands into fists, his spike still out and dripping a small amount of transfluid off the tip. For a moment, she was reminded of the young mech whom Sentinel had dropped in her lap and told her to raise without being obvious about it. He was still so confused and unsure of himself. Still.

"It's fine, Optimus. My carry tank filled a little and I hate that feeling. Ripped all my charge right out of me." Honesty was the best policy with this mech. And the Matrix.

"Can I make it up to you?" He asked, trailing his finger through her valve folds before tenderly wiping her down with a rag from his subspace. For himself, he didn't bother, just tucking away his fluid coated spike and taking a seat. His optics still focused on her valve, large fingers palpating the folds of delicate mesh and metal, searching for any hidden damage.

The door to the office slid open before she could answer him, a grey Praxian mech with stunning doorwings stepped inside.

"Prime, sir!" He saluted, doing his best to ignore the beautiful valve clearly on display for his Prime. "I apologize for not comming ahead, but Alpha Trion was trying to reach you. He was being really weird about it too, not letting any of us actually know what was going on, but insisting that you come by as quickly as possible. And sir, to be honest, Magnus sent me to get you, but I feel like a simple comm would have done, so now I'm wondering what is actually going on, because Magnus usually sees you himself -"

"Enough, Blue. I will see to Trion and Magnus." The Prime rose, tapping Sentinel's designation glyph above the femme's panel pointedly. She slid her valve cover closed, gracing them both with a smile before slipping out the side door to find the new Consort. It was past time to begin her lessons. Time was ticking and the Prime was not a patient mech on the best of days.


	14. The Start of Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. Here's the next chapter! We are about to start getting to the nitty gritty plot soon.

'Lessons' was a generous term for what Elita was going through. Lessons implied a certain decorum, a set schedule. This was not that.

"What is this supposed to accomplish?" Elita asked as she attempted to glide down the stairs of the main hall. Normally this was not a huge deal. It was, after all, just walking down a staircase. In this case, it was a little more complex, as the hobbles tying her legs together only allowed her to move only the length of one step. Which meant that she had to time the steps incredibly precisely, or risk falling flat on her faceplate.

"An empress must learn to glide beside her Prime, not stomp like a wild animal. You must always be the epitome of grace and poise, no matter the circumstances. You will learn to not embarrass him. Or he will punish you, not I. And rest assured that I am the more forgiving of the two of us." Sideswipe answered from his lounging position at the base of the stairs. Sunstreaker was next to him, sketching away on a data pad.

"Am I always to be hobbled in His Grace's presence?" She asked, continuing to attempt her gliding down the massive and ornate stair.

"If he should wish it. I suggest that you do not bring this up to him, it might give him ideas." Sideswipe answered, looking over Sunstreaker's shoulder to peer at the data pad.

"Speaking of my inglorious mate, when will I see him once more? He's been awfully quiet in the bond this orn."

"Ah, yes. He was summoned to meet with Alpha Trion and Ultra Magnus. They're probably talking about you in some form or fashion." He paused, leveling her with an appraising gaze. "But your language skills have improved significantly. You're sounding the part better, if not looking it yet. Try and keep that up around Trion."

Elita felt the edge of the step on her pede, and knew that she was going to fall. Again. And fall she did, almost all of the way down the staircase. When she slid to a halt and waited until the ringing in her audials had stopped before speaking again.

"I could use a break..." She muttered, looking at Sideswipe upside down from where she had landed on her back.

"Me too. Here's your lunch, My Lady," Sideswipe grinned at her before crouching down and placing the glowing energon cube several steps away from her. "You may enjoy it when you can get to it." She struggled into a sitting position and scooted on her aft until she could reach the cube. Her auto repairs were still taxed from the orns prior, and the numbness in her legs wasn't helping matters.

"While you're just hanging out, let's continue your lessons. Now, explain to me the difference between Jazz and Prowl, in terms of their duties to the Prime." Elita sighed, quickly gulping down the mouthful she had taken. This was going to take forever.

* * *

Tiredness seeped into her very struts. It was a mental exhaustion as well. So now that Sideswipe had let her retire to the Prime's library, all she wanted to do was rest. But he would know if she just sat down and recharged. He seemed to know everything, even when he wasn't there. The books must have optics. And the floors. And the doors. Everything had optics, apparently. Her life was no longer private in any way shape or form.

So it was an easy choice to pluck a well worn data pad off the shelf and curl up in a chair in front of the fire place. The glyphs on the pad began to blur rather quickly, but it was easy to ignore. This was more rest than she'd had in orns, and was likely to be the only peace and quiet she'd get. The tome in her hands was well worn, the black enamel on its edges fading into silver. When her processor could finally focus on the glyphs, they wove a classic tale of darkness and light, good versus evil. While it seemed groan worthy, it was also a quick and easy read, requiring no processor power. Every single bot in existence knew of the tale of Unicron and Primus, and their eternal fight, even those who were abandoned to the wilderness.

When the doors to the library opened, Elita hardly noticed. Sideswipe could wait for a moment while she finished the sentence. So the red and blue hand that fell on her shoulder was most unexpected. The bond instantly flowing open to flood her with arousal was even more so. A single large finger clicked off the data pad in her hand, before setting it to the side. A soft blue glow cast over her pink frame, fighting with the light cast by the fireplace. She was amazed at the quietness of his systems. For such a large mecha, he moved with a whisper. But when he scooped her out of the chair and threw her in front of the fire, it was anything but quiet.

"How was your day, my lover?" His baritone flowed over her audios, its smooth quality such a contrast to the crunch of stone under the Prime's knees as he dropped over her chassis. She went limp under him, attempting to be as quiet and meek as possible. The time to challenge him wasn't even on the horizon, now it was time to try and make an ally. And if her valve could help, then even better. "Mine was quite frustrating. You see, Alpha Trion and Ultra Magnus came to me to explain the potential pitfalls of having an uncontrollable Wildling consort. So I have elected to step in and expedite your training, my love."

"I can assure you, my Prime, that I am endeavoring to be the most perfect consort you have ever laid optics on. I want nothing more than to be the ornament on your arm, the envy of all those around you." She dimmed her optics and turned her head slightly to the side, putting on the best show she could.

"I do hope that you will be ready at our bonding ceremony. I would very much hate for you to be the cause of any embarrassment." His large fingers were tracing her chassis in a seductive rythym, up and over the seam of her chest plates, right over her very spark.

"My Lord Prime, the most I could possibly do to embarrass you would be to allow you to take my valve seal before the ceremony. Ratchet, your CMO, has advised me that a new valve seal can take meta cycles to properly adhere to the valve itself. Which is why he replaced it so quickly after you initially took me. If you break it before the ceremony, the new seal might not have enough time to settle before the priests inspect me. Which would be...tragic." She turned a smile up at the giant resting over her prone form. He was silent for a long moment, and Elita could feel the frustration brewing in the bond, warring with the lust. His fingers stilled on her chest plates before they slipped into the seam and wrenched. The sturdy metal peeled apart with an almighty creak of gears giving way under the immense pressure exerted by the Prime.

"Luckily for you, Ratchet is very adept at fixing chest plates and shattered spark crystals. This one shouldn't take more than a few orn to repair." As his life force mixed with her own, her anger and pain mixed with his own frustration and arousal until they were both straining for overload. When it finally came, it was less pleasure and more pure energy release. There was no relaxing feeling afterwards, just a stronger sense of each other. Each time they merged, they were going to strengthen their fledgling bond. Her chestplates hurt so much she couldn't online her optics. Not that she wanted to see the living embodiment of Primus above her.

The feelings echoing through the bond were enough to know that he was livid, and the spike pressing against her stomach plating was hard, hot and long. Air intakes were strained to limit as she fought to cool her systems, small bits of electricity continuing to flow over her plating, making her itch and twitch.

"Touch me, Consort. Make it good, and I will consider taking you to the medbay rather than leaving you here to be tended to by Sideswipe's tender mercies." As he spoke, his hand scooped her own in his grip and transferred her small hand to his spike. He moved their hands together for a few moments, letting her feel the pressure and rhythm he enjoyed most when he was in the mood to blow quickly. Elita's small hand felt divine around his length, soft and smooth and a little bit hesitant. So different from his whores and Bladespark.

It was almost...refreshing. Watching her face was equally fascinating. He hadn't watched her during the sparkmerge. It was difficult for him to concentrate in a merge - it was still too new for him to be able to control the sensation. It was something he was going to have to work on, because Elita's face was amazing during this, so it must be exquisite during a merge. The rage and concentration mixed on her brow, optics offline. A hint of pain hovered around the thin metal of her optics, and the heat flowing off her frame was intoxicating. All in all, it took about a breem for him to overload with a choking groan, striping her frame with his transfluid. It was a good look on her.

"I hope that the rest of your etiquette training goes well, my lover. And don't wash off your frame until they come to detail you for our bonding. I want to see how long it takes me to change your base color to purple instead of pink. I expect it won't take long. You and I will have a standing meeting during morning court until our bonding. You will learn to pleasure me in the ways benefitting a Primal Consort. I will personally see to your training."

"Looking forward to it, lover."


	15. Blissful Darkness

Morning court was the least favorite part of Elita’s ornly “duties.” The Prime would sit in his throne at the back of an onyx dais, and she was his favored ornament. It was, in fact, the very same chamber where Bladespark had held her while the Prime had first raped and taken her spark as his own. The double doors at the other end of the room had been repaired since he had knocked them down in his fervor to get to her, but she still had to sit in his lap and stare at the door that haunted her nightly recharge fluxes. 

In the few decaorn she had been performing her duties, the Prime had decided to put her through her paces as his new favored pet. Sometimes she was on her knees in front of him, straining her core muscle cables to reach his spike and then getting used to her jaws being sore as she sucked him off. Elita had mostly been with femmes in her life, and they were not usually so quick to use their transfluid as a painting medium. The Prime, on the other hand, seemed to want to leave as much of his transfluid on her at any given time as he could. It wasn’t unusual for Elita to show up to training with Sideswipe and Alpha Trion with thick, gooey and slightly dried transfluid decorating her entire body. She had even tried to punch Sunstreaker when he asked if she would stand still so he could sample the color of the semi-translucent transfluid on her rose colored painting – all for art, of course. 

This orn was no different. General Prowl was kneeling before the dais, giving a report on what percentage of the rest of her Wildlings they believed they had captured. He estimated around sixty three percent had been captured and either incarcerated, sold on the slave market, or eliminated. Elita knew all too well that for every one Wildling caught, there were at least three more in the shadows. If they had managed to capture forty percent of the Wildling population she would be surprised. 

Then again, she didn’t have the chance to say as much to the mecha. She had been gagged with a metal sphere, hands bound in front of her, and her feet bound to the legs of the Prime’s throne so that her back was to his chest. The mech in question was busy rubbing his spike in between her thighs, slick with a mixture of their own fluids and some artificial lubricant no doubt filched from Ratchet. While the Prime seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, Elita was almost weeping from being in a prolonged state of arousal. With every thrust of the Prime’s hips, his spike would slide sensuously between her thighs and skim the edge of her external node before retreating to hit the underside of her valve. With her feet bound to the legs of the throne, she could only thrash ineffectively against him, pedes scraping against the cold stone floor as she tried to get some friction on her node. 

As the General finished his oral report, the Prime groaned long and low behind her helm, and scalding hot fluids struck her node repeatedly. She twitched against her bonds, moaning almost brokenly against the hard gag in her mouth, unable to speak or see to her own pleasure. Massive hands reached between their bodies to play in the fluids left behind, picking up a liberal coating and smearing the slightly opaque liquid all up her chest plates and around the gag. He especially liked to rub it into the thinner metal around her tanks, where their sparkling would one day gestate. He enjoyed reminding her of her duties as Consort.

“Good work, General!” Lord Prime’s voice was almost enchanting from this distance. Raw power and mechly potency surrounding her so completely, and she was completely at his mercy. Her valve openly wept fluids in preparation for his spike, but he wouldn’t risk his newspark being deemed a bastard. He had made that much clear. But as punishment for her inability to pleasure him with her valve, he made every use of her mouth and body in other ways. Not once had he allowed her to climax, instead driving her to the very edge, only to remove his fingers or once – his mouthplates – at the very last moment. 

“Thank you, my Prime. My mecha have been working tirelessly, and it is slow and grueling work,” the black and white mecha on the floor chose his words very carefully around his Lord. “The Wildlings seem to know the forests like you know the archives. We have found that flushing them out of their homes with chemical gases seems to be working much faster. They can only know so much of the area before they are caught out in unfamiliar territory.” The red chevron bowed further to the floor, plating carefully neutral. 

“A viable strategy,” The Prime’s exvents hit her in the back of the neck as he moved forward and gently traced her seams with the tip of his glossa as he slid his hand between their bodies, feeling where they were almost connected. “However, due take care to take all the younglings prisoner. The young ones brought in with this group are adapting quite nicely to life under my rule. They have picked up reading and writing, and are even being taught table manners.” 

Elita stiffened slightly under his hands, knowing that had been aimed at her. Alpha Trion had not seen fit to hold his glossa when speaking about her shortcomings in training. It was not her fault that these so called ‘civillized’ bots had more rules to fueling than should ever be allowed. Not one of them had ever been truly hungry, or known the madness an empty tank could inspire. 

“Yes, milord. We are working tirelessly to bring them all in as specified. Jazz is working on putting a few agents into their midst, to make tracking them a touch easier. But they’ve been wily and very untrusting of any newcomers, even femmes and older younglings. It’s giving him a good outlet for his energies. He’s able to get creative with his training.” 

“So long as he keeps his transfluid off her plating, we’ll all get along. She’s mine in all but ceremony now. Isn’t that right, my darling Consort?” The Prime chuckled, jostling her on his lap until her ankles pulled painfully at the chains holding her in place. Her hands flexed in their bonds as well, useless to catch herself.

“I can assure you, Lord Prime, we all await that orn eagerly. It will be good to have a young master nipping at our heels once more. Your security detail for the day has been assigned and we are going over our plans each decaorn. We will all be ready.”

“Excellent. Dismissed, General. Court is now adjourned. Any who still need my attention may forward their needs on to my aides, who will handle my affairs from now until a decaorn after I return from my bondage to my Consort. I look forward to seeing all my subject in three orn’s time at the ceremony. Until then, all are dismissed,” The Prime’s voice rang strong and clear through the room, but his voice was much lower and softer when he growled, “Except for you, my love. You and I need to discuss a few items prior to your dismissal.” 

Sideswipe, who was lounging against his brother and their lover, all of them looking slightly dazed and scraped up, nodded and turned to leave with the rest of the courtiers gathered against the walls. Bluestreak chuckled, not at all phased by the dual grips on his pert aft as they turned as a unit to leave. Everyone in this bastion seemed to think that being a sensual object was a badge of honor. 

As the chamber emptied, she became hyper aware of the massive monster lurking right behind her. When his court was in session he was no less brutal, but he did tend to be less…intense. He was more likely to ridicule her, punish her for any perceived slight, but there was something much scarier about him when they were alone. Other mecha in the room helped to diffuse their energies a touch, but when they were alone it was impossible to ignore the aching of their sparks. They were newly bonded, and they needed to merge as often as possible. With that came lust, a need to be physically connected from spike to valve. Each merge tested his resolve, made him more bitter, more dangerous. 

“I will be leaving you until the day of our bonding.” He said abruptly, digging one hand into the soft metal of her valve lips, not quite hurting but sending sensation rapidly through her neural network. His other hand demagnetized the gag in her mouth, allowing it to fall and bounce off her lap and onto the floor. Her node burst back into life, demanding attention, demanding an overload. Several decaorn of being wound up by her mate, receiving only spark overloads while her body was teased was beyond cruel and unusual. She was burning alive, drowning in a need for one she so intensely hated. 

“Such a shame, my Lord. You know how I enjoy your company,” Elita said quietly, cursing the heavy static in her voice. “And how much I enjoy seeing to your pleasure.” Hatred and need together coursed through her side of the bond, showering him with both sensations until he was sure to go mad. But the light from the Matrix bathed the side of her faceplates, showing that it was shielding him from the extent of her emotions. She was not as lucky. His lust and want hit her fully, followed closely by frustration and anger. She gasped as the full sensations overtook her, coupled with his fingers still lightly teasing her valve. She was so close to the edge. Just a tiny bit of friction and she could topple over the edge. After this long, the overload would hurt, but it was also feel divine. 

“My priests remind me that I have to submit to their authority as they prep and cleanse me to take you as my consort. You will continue your lessons with Sideswipe in the meantime. Sunstreaker has been authorized to repaint you for the ceremony,” His finger inched closer to her node, and her body jerked as she tried to move into his hand, craving the release like a drug. “You would do well to prepare yourself to carry my newspark. The council will not wait long. I will not wait long either. I need an heir. Several, in fact, but we can start with one. I will see you in three orn, my lover.”

He paused for a long moment, simply venting and enjoying the mixed scents of their arousal and his transfluid. His hands stilled on her plating, warm vents washing over helm in steady rhythm.

“I’ll gift you something to remember me by.”

His finger twitched, and she saw stars before blackness overtook her.


End file.
